Daylight in the Swamp: Memoirs of Selwyn Dewdney

daylight in the swanp

Selwyn Dewdney, 1965

daylight in the swamp Memoirs of Selwyn Dewdney

Edited byA.K. Dewdney

DUNDURN PRESS Toronto • Oxford

Copyright © Selwyn Dewdney 1997 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press Limited. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Reprography Collective. Editor: Doris Cowan Manuscript Preparation: Nigel Wood Designer: Scott Reid Printer: Transcontinental Printing Inc.

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Dewdney, Selwyn, 1909-1979 Daylight in the swamp: memoirs of Selwyn Dewdney Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 1-55002-251-2 1. Dewdney, Selwyn, 1909-1979. 2. Canada, Northern, in art. 3. Artists - Canada - Biography. I. Dewdney, Keewatin. II. Title. N6549.D48A2 1997

760'. 092

C97-930772-4

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council and the Book Publishing Industry Development Program of the Department of Canadian Heritage.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions. Printed and bound in Canada.

Printed on recycled paper.

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Contents

contents

List o f F i g u r e s . . .

6

List o f P l a t e s . . .

8

Preface ...

9

1. F i r s t Love ...

11

2. A Few A c r e s of Snow ...

21

3. Bush Apprenticeship ...

31

4. H i s t o r y is Now ...

45

5. On the Edge of A n o t h e r World ...

59

6.LacSeulSagas...

71

7. The Canoe ...

81

8. Up S h e t l a n d C r e e k . . .

89

9. Bush H o n e y m o o n

107

. . .

10. Men and Boys in the M o u n t a i n s . . .

121

11. P a c k i n g on the Pic . . .

135

12. Boys in the B u s h ...

145

13. Red O c h r e ...

157

14. Island Quest

...

171

A p p e n d i x : R a d i o M e m o i r s of C a n o n S a n d e r s o n . . .

185

Selected P u b l i c a t i o n s of Selwyn D e w d n e y . . .

191

Figures (Where no date is given, precise dating has not been possible)

figures

1. Selwyn Dewdney, 1965 2. Alfred Daniel Alexander Dewdney, Bishop of Keewatin 3. Alice Dewdney, Selwyn's mother, relaxes on the beach at Sand Lake 4. (a & b) Two views of Kenora, 1925 5. Rocky shore of Tunnel Island, pencil sketch 6. Locomotive, pencil sketch 7. Aerial photograph of Norway House, 1928 8. Two men ponder map, pencil sketch 9. Forest Friends Feasting (on my arm!), pencil sketch 10. Character studies, pencil sketches 11. Untitled study of lake, pencil sketch 12. Untitled, pencil sketch 13. Untitled, pen and ink 14. Trapper's cabin, pencil sketch 15. Hunter, pencil sketch, 1938 16. Studies of canoes, pencil sketches 17. Waves on lake, pencil sketch 18. Trapper's cabin, pencil sketch, 1935 19. Buildings at Mattice, pencil sketch, 1935 20. Porquis Junction, pencil sketch, 1935 21. Porquis Junction, pencil sketch, 1935 22. Sunday, pencil sketch, 1935 23. The Kid—Camp Helper, pencil sketch, 1935 24. Bush landscape, pencil sketch, 1935 25. Trapper's cabin, pencil sketch, 1935 26. Survey camp, pencil sketch, 1935 27. Bill Goudge, Axeman, pencil sketch, 1935 28. Three Pre Cambrians, pencil sketch, 1935 29. Dave, pencil sketch, 1935 30. Dave, pencil sketch, 1935 31. Mark Lonergan, pencil sketch, 1935 32. Map showing part of canoe trip made by Selwyn and Irene Dewdney, 1937 33. Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdney, pen and ink, 1937

figures

34. Blindfold Lake, pencil sketch, 1937 35. Rapids on the Wabigoon River, pencil sketch, 1937 36. Irene whittling, pencil sketch, 1937 37. Newspaper report of Selwyn and Irene Dewdney's canoe trip from Kenora to Red Lake and back, in Kenora Miner & News, Friday, August 20,1937 38. Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdney, pen and ink, 1938 39. Cabins on Finlay River, pencil sketch, 1938 40. Finlay Forks, pencil sketch, 1938 41. Hal Davison, pencil sketch, 1938 42. Hugh Gallie, pencil sketch, 1938 43. Mountain pack horse, Jake, pencil sketch, 1938 44. Sekani Woman—Fort MacLeod, pencil sketch, 1938 45. Little Canada, pencil sketch, 1938 46. From Mica Mountain, pencil sketch, 1938 47. From Mica Mountain, pencil sketch, 1938 48. Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdney, pen and ink 49. "Eric" (after a heavy meal), pencil sketch, 1943 50. Church at Nicholson, pencil sketch, 1946 51. Old barn—Nicholson, pencil sketch, 1946 52. Selwyn Dewdney, March, 1946 53. Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdney, ink on paper, 1957 54. Selwyn Dewdney and son Christopher with VW minibus during a pictographic expedition 55. Pictograph of naturalistic beings 56. Pictograph of supernatural beings 57. Pictograph—Fairy Point, Face IX 58. Pictograph—Fairy Point, Face VIII 59. Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdneypen and ink, 1942 60. Missinaibie, pencil sketch, 1942 61. Boat Channel Island, pencil sketch, 1977 62. Little Loon Island, from Peter's Point, pencil sketch, 1978 63. From the bronze plaque at Agawa commemorating Selwyn Dewdney's contribution to the study of aboriginal rock paintings.

Plates

plates

1. N a m a C r e e k F a l l s , 1945 2. B i l l R o b i n s o n , 1933 3. G u l l L a k e , 1940 4 . W h i t e f i s h F a l l s — s k e t c h , 1943 5. R a c k e t y F a l l s , 1942 6. W a b u s k a n e L a k e , 1941 7. R o c k , W a t e r & Tree, 1949 8. G u l l Lake P o i n t , 1942 9. B u s h C a m p , c. 1935 10. Lac Seul C h u r c h , 1953 11. W a b u s k a n e Lake S t u d y , 1957 12. Bill G o u d g e , 1945 13. S t a n d i n g A n t e l o p e , 1965 14. R a c k e t y F a l l s , c. 1943 15. P r e c a m b r i a n S h o r e , 1953 16. W i n d y S h o r e , G u l l L a k e , c. 1950

^"^elwyn Dewdney died on November 18, 1979, following openf*

preface

^ heart surgery to correct a faulty artificial valve. His death

V^_*/

marked the biblically allotted "three score and ten" years of

human life, a seventy-year period that he used well. In his boyhood in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, his teen years in Kenora, Ontario, and his adult life in Owen Sound and London, Ontario, Selwyn Dewdney followed three paths: art, education, and the bush. Art replaced an earlier call that he thought he heard as a boy. His father was an Anglican minister who, as Selwyn entered his teens, became the bishop of Keewatin. Selwyn's oldest brother, Alec, was also a minister. At the age of sixteen, Selwyn accompanied the bishop on a gruelling eight hundred mile trek through the northern Ontario bush to visit far-flung native communities. From that moment on, the bush called him with increasing urgency. For a time his newfound love of the Canadian wilderness, would masquerade as missionary zeal, but that youthful illusion did not last long. Even when the call of art replaced that of religion, painting itself would take on a secondary role, becoming an excuse to set out into the bush with his beloved canoe. During his highschool teaching years, Selwyn stretched his salary to the breaking point in order to finance his wilderness excursions. At first he travelled alone but later he took his wife, Irene, and, at one time or another, all four of his sons, Donner, Keewatin, Peter, and Christopher. In the handful of years that remained to him before the fateful second operation, Selwyn worked on these memoirs. He assembled passages from his bush diary, field notes, and letters home. He wrote (and rewrote) from memory, pounding away on his trusty Underwood portable typewriter at odd moments. He worked at home in London, Ontario, and at his island cabin on Lake Windermere. He pasted scraps of paper listing new ideas onto the margins of old material. At the time

9

of his death he left a manuscript that was partial at best.

my promise, as such. With the advent of inexpensive

The strange thing was that while his family was certainly

word-processing, Daylight in the Swamp suddenly looked

aware of the memoirs project, we all forgot it when he

easier. I started in. Selwyn's prose resembled the northern

died. Perhaps it was the shock of his death.

bush. Here were fine, open glades of memory but here

The night following his funeral, I lay in bed trying not

also were swamps of badly organized prose, miles of

to think about anything, hoping that sleep would soon

passive voice, streams of run-on sentences, thought-bite

bring relief. Suddenly, I felt someone standing beside the

deadfalls, sermonizing, and a general lack of continuity

bed, a presence. I squinted into the half light of the

that only a word-processor, with its ability to move whole

hallway creeping through a doorcrack. Nothing. No one.

blocks of prose instantly, could remedy.

The presence was a feeling, an awful feeling. And it was

It is done now. I have preserved his voice, I think, and

him! As a scientist, I could hardly believe in ghosts, but

sustained the stories and sketches that true lovers of the

what else could you call this presence? It was Selwyn and

North will cherish. From the title (the last line of a highly

something was wrong, something I was supposed to set

questionable bush-poem) to the final section on native

right. But what? "Okay", I said into the darkness. "Okay. I

pictographs, readers will hear a new and authentic voice

understand." Abruptly the feeling ceased.

of history, of native people, of a land undergoing

But it began again the very next morning, not the presence, but the urgency. When time permitted, I visited

irretrievable change. Some daylight, at last, has entered the manuscript.

the house where he and my mother had lived for twentyfive years. I walked from room to room without the

Keewatin Dewdney

slightest clue of what, if anything, I was looking for. And I

1997

felt a bit foolish, to boot. I went into his study and stared dully at the typewriter, the azalea plant, the rows of books, the light in the garden. Then it caught my eye, beside the typewriter. The manuscript was plainly marked Daylight in the Swamp. As soon as I picked it up, the feeling of dread and urgency ceased abruptly. I kept the manuscript for many years before starting to work on it. Some chapters were fairly straightforward, others were a mess. I dreaded the doing but remembered 10

v chapter one

F i r s t

Love

She's a little honey. She's lying behind me right now—

If my love affair with the Algonkian canoe and our

I've only to turn to see her trim little figure on the sand. We

search for an island home amount to leitmotifs in these

were made for each other...

memoirs, larger themes are also present. I wonder if,

From a letter to Irene Dewdney, July 10, 1942

looking back on such a varied and confusing life, I shall find a unifying element, a deeper unconscious direction

The quote above refers to Olga, my canoe. She was not

that I have followed unwittingly. Perhaps C.P. Snow is

the first canoe I had paddled, to be sure, nor the first I

correct when he says that " . . . in your deepest relations,

had fallen in love with, but she was the first canoe that I

there is only one test of what you profoundly want: It

had paid for in hard pre-inflation Canadian dollars. And

consists of what happens to you."

she has always held a special place in my memory as the

One thing is clear. From childhood I have had an urge

only canoe I have known that perished by accidental

to wander the Canadian hinterland, to extend the dreams

cremation.

and desires of a boy born on the edge of Saskatchewan's

Even Olga's name had a special significance for me

boreal forest. It seems reasonable, therefore, in trying to

and Irene. It was to have been the name of the daughter

sort out the confusion of that life, to hope that an

Irene hoped to have. But after the birth of four sons, she

exploration of my bush experiences will shed some

reluctantly gave up that dream. Another dream we shared

daylight on the swamp of my memories. Inseparably, an

remained nothing more than a dream for decades: The

account of my first love, the Algonkian canoe, will

discovery of an island home in God's country, the

emerge.

Canadian North.

Going back to the little lake, scarcely more than a 11

Daylight in the Swamp slough and a mere fifteen miles

back all the way down for another

north of Prince Albert, I return to

run at it if the first attempt failed.

the place our family spent its

Or we would just get stuck in the

summers for three incredible years.

sand.

Incredible, that is, in my memory.

We always had at least one flat

Of the dozens of Sand Lakes and

tire en route. This meant taking out

Sandy Lakes scattered

across

the inner tube of the afflicted tire,

Canada, this Sand Lake must have

patching it, getting it all on the rim

been the smallest. I revisited it in

again, then pumping it up by hand.

1965 to find that, whatever it was

There was no spare wheel, so

then, it is now neither sandy nor a

carrying an extra tire and inner

lake. Just another Saskatchewan

tube saved no time. At a corner

slough, shrunk to a pitiful relic of

called Spruce Home, we would turn

the lake I knew. Swamp grasses had

off the main road, drive through a

overgrown the sand.

series of farms (opening and closing gates), bumping over bare

I'm not certain of the date of

roots

our first summer there, but it must have been before the flu epidemic

Figure 2. Alfred Daniel Alexander Dewdney, Bishop of Keewatin

of 1919, in which my brother

and getting stuck in

mudholes. Finally, we reached an open

Robert died. I still have the snapshot of the whole

stretch of cleared land, a sandy double track from

"ladder" of six boys. Baby John was at the bottom, then

Galbraith's to Balfour's farm; from there to the lake it was

Harold, Robert, myself, Albert, and Alex, the eldest, at

a mere fifty yards. Dad and Alex had built the floor and

the top.

frames for what we called the Big Tent and the Little Tent,

Dad had bought a "tin Lizzie" a year or two earlier

their corners nearly touching. The little tent held bunks

and, although I may be exaggerating, I recall that the

for the four older boys. The two youngest slept in the big

fifteen mile trip out to Sand Lake took most of the day.

tent with Mother, as did Dad when he got away from his

There were the sand hills. After you crossed the North

clerical duties. As Archdeacon of Prince Albert, he

Saskatchewan river, even in low gear, with everyone but

frequently visited prairie parishes, implementing plans he

the driver walking, we would have trouble. We would

had drawn up for their new churches. Immigration was at 11

Daylight in the Swamp but symbiosis was even better. For a nine-year old boy she was a large craft, but long and heavy enough to tolerate my sixty pounds in the stern without becoming at all unstable. In fact, I was just heavy enough to lift the bow slightly out of the water. This made it eminently manoeuverable in the evening calm. But I learned soon enough to move amidships when there was a wind. I was totally untaught. My two older brothers had no more canoe experience than I and Figure 3. Alice Dewdney, S e l w y n ' s mother, relaxes on the beach at Sand Lake

although I can recall going out in the canoe with Albert, I

a high level, mainly from central Europe but substantially

that I had access to the canoe almost whenever I

from Great Britain, too.

wanted it.

can't remember his being as enthusiastic as I was. It seems

There was then a surprising amount of beach along

The evening calm was my favourite time. If I needed

the south side of the lake: a wide area of dry sand and a

any evidence that the water was not good to drink, I had

firm, sandy bottom as far out as we could wade. Much of

only to watch the lines of creamy foam along the shore

the shore was interspersed with reeds, the round, tapering

where the waves beat on a windy day. As the water

type that grow in a few feet of water and bend gracefully

subsided in the evening, the foam began to detach itself

in the wind.

from the shore in long lines at first, then breaking up

The lake was essentially swamp water, and mother

into smaller units and irregular formations. How

used it only for washing. We boys took turns going to

fascinating it was to manoeuvre the canoe in and out

Balfour's well to bring back ice-cold drinking water in

among these little islands, imagining them as icebergs

bright tin pails. My daily chore was to clean out the

whose slightest touch would bring doom. Or I would be

porridge pot, which I did with dispatch by the little two-

a cavalry officer smashing irresistibly through an

plank dock, anticipating a free day after that. So it was up

unbroken line of foam, swinging around to attack from

to the big tent with the clean pot, then a joyous dash

the rear. Although it was all to no conscious purpose, I

down to the beach to greet our elegant sixteen-foot

was learning to control my craft.

Peterborough-type pleasure canoe,

my first true love.

But my techniques were the crudest. All I knew was

Even then I understood that romance was wonderful,

that you could turn either by hard paddling on one side

13

• Daylight in the Swamp • or by dragging the paddle on the other side. Alternatively,

was alone, exhilaratingly alone in the forest hush, staring

by building up speed, paddling on alternate sides to keep

and staring upward as if that great tree had a message for

on a straight line, I could use my paddle like a rudder to

me alone.

swerve in one direction or the other. Inevitably, I got

Family berry-picking excursions acquainted us with

quite skillful in spite of these limitations. Even later in life

much of the lake. We might work our way out of the

I got quite a bang out of paddling along a high rock face

northwest corner of the lake into a series of sloughs. We

at a lively speed, so controlling the craft that the

named them the Greater and Lesser Shallow Lakes. Here,

gunwhale would touch the rock with just a whisper. Back

my elder brothers took precedence as canoemen but I

on Sand Lake there were no cliffs or rocks of any

held my peace, knowing that after supper she would be

description, just the foam and long reeds. When there was

mine alone.

no foam to charge, I would come at the reeds that arched gracefully out of the water along the shore.

On the east shore of the lake there was a rookery among the tall, white poplars. From here issued some of

Sand Lake was not always calm. There were days when

the strangest croaks and caws as adult crows gave gawky

a wild wind blew out of the northwest and waves crashed

young their first vocal lessons. It was a good place for

menacingly along the beaches. Then I would become a

high bush cranberries, but the flies were fierce when the

Viking, launching my longboat with a berserk burst of

berries were ripe. Dad, who, among other things, was a

strength, leaping aboard as she mounted the first great

great tinsmith, fashioned tin cans into berry cups that we

breakers, then standing amidships to stroke out to sea

boys could clip to our belts, bringing them full to pour

with quick, powerful thrusts of my paddle.

into a five-quart pail. There were no blueberries at Sand

There were explorations along the shore, as well. One

Lake, but there were Saskatoon berries in abundance.

day I paddled across to the north shore of the little lake,

Those who rave about blueberry pie have never tasted

pulled the canoe up into the brush, and entered the dense

Saskatoon berry pie. Fresh picked, this pear-shaped

spruce forest that bordered the lake across from our

purple fruit is larger and seedier than your average

camp. I remember the silence and the feeling that this

blueberry, but just as juicy. Preserved, it has a unique

forest would go on and on northwards, without end. I

flavour that no other berry can match and that I couldn't

went deeper and deeper into the forest, not knowing what

begin to describe.

I was seeking, until I came to a great tree, probably a

In the northeast corner of Sand Lake, it seemed so

white spruce. I looked upward in awe to where its trunk

shallow that you doubted the canoe would float until you

faded into the lower grey screen of outlived branches. I

dipped your paddle toward the dark bottom to feel 14

Daylight in the Swamp

a&bKenora,

1925

nothing. Bubbles that came up from the stew of black and

Kenora became our new home. In the winter of 1921,

rotting vegetation stank of sulphur dioxide and other

on the last leg of the journey from Winnipeg across the

noxious vapours, earning the bay its name: Devil's

flats of Manitoba, our train entered a strange land.

Perfume Bay. Only years later did I learn the correct

Although the snow made it familiar enough to the eye, we

technical term for the odoriferous muck: loon shit.

passed through rock cuts where walls of solid granite

The west shore of the lake opened onto the pasture

towered higher than I could see, even craning my neck at

land that Balfour's small herd of milch cows grazed all

the window. The house that came with Dad's new job as

night. Only once, in Ontario's Haliburton County, have I

the Anglican Bishop of the diocese of Keewatin was high

ever heard again the nostalgic combination that lulled me to sleep night after night at Sand Lake: the soft clang of distant cowbells and the distant fluting of the loons. One seemingly trivial experience at Sand Lake left an indelible mark on my memory. One windy day I landed the canoe at a spot on the south shore that I had never visited before, the only place where waves had washed out a bank of gravel scarcely a foot high. Embedded in the bank was a large stone that I pried out and stared at with awe. There are not many rocks on the Prairies, and to my inexperienced eye it was enormous, bigger than a man's fist! How was it possible for a rock to be that big? 15

Figure 5. Rocky shore of Tunnel Island"

• Daylight in the Swamp • on the rocky shore of Tunnel Island, across the bay from

appearance of ease, their paddles slipping so silently and

the town of Kenora. When spring came, there was rock

smoothly, with such effortless ease, that I realized they

everywhere.

could keep up the stroke all day without tiring. I tried to

The only way the builders could provide a lawn for the

master the art of squatting as low as they did, realizing

house was to put up a stone retaining wall six to eight feet

that this was the way to stabilize the canoe when it had no

high, bringing in earth to fill it. Instead of blasting out a

load for ballast. I had learned to kneel for short periods of

basement, they made one on the ground floor and built

time in choppy water, but ten minutes of sitting on my

the living floor of the house some ten feet above ground

calves was too much. It took another ten minutes to

level. There was a hospital on Tunnel Island just north of

straighten my knees when I stood up!

our house on even higher rock. A bridge connected the

I had also noticed that the man never seemed to drag

island to the mainland and in winter, when people from

his paddle to keep the canoe on course, as if he didn't need

the town wanted to visit the hospital, they would take the

to steer. But I hadn't watched his paddle stroke closely

short cut across our property. Naturally, we did too.

enough to discover how he did it. I didn't learn how to

During our first summer in Kenora I was in the family canoe morning, noon or night, whenever it became

achieve this effect until the following summer. Hector Angus, the local piano tuner, taught me how.

available. Sometimes I would use an errand to town as my

While his wife was in the Tunnel Island hospital, he

excuse. I can't recall whether we brought the Sand Lake

would visit by canoe. I noticed him pulling up to the

canoe with us or acquired another. I only remember that it

hospital boathouse on several occasions. He paddled a

was the same model of cedar-strip Peterborough canoe

fourteen foot canoe, smaller than ours, but he sat

and that someone had painted it blue.

amidships and handled the craft with the skill and ease

I was in it whenever we were both free. With no foam

of a master. From him I discovered the Ojibway steering

to chase or reeds to dodge, I concentrated on making

twist. Until that time, when I wanted to keep the canoe

perfect landings at the boathouse dock and got quite

from swinging, I would turn the blade out at each

good at it. But I was still using my self-taught techniques

power stroke so it acted like a rudder. Angus turned the

of Sand Lake.

blade in at each power stroke just as he lifted the paddle

Twice during the early days in Kenora I was

out of the water on the return stroke. I tried it and it

confronted with the fact that I was a novice. Once, a man,

worked. But I was awkward because I had to fight my

a woman, and two children glided past our boathouse in

former practice,

a birchbark canoe. They sat on their calves with every

A year or two later, when Angus came over to tune our

16

• Daylight in the Swamp • piano, I had a chance to talk to him. He was morose and

wave, entering the water for the next stroke without a

somewhat laconic until I asked him about canoeing.

ripple. Over the years I have developed my own style, but

Then he came alive. What stuck in my mind, apart from

no matter how good I may have seemed to myself, I have

the glow of his eyes on that occasion, was his engaging

always reminded myself that Hector Angus did it better.

description of traveling at night. In a calm that lasted

After that first glimpse of the Ojibway family, it was

from evening through the night, you could make better

years before I saw another birchbark canoe. Most of the

time, he said at one point. But I suspect, after travelling at

Lake of the Woods Ojibway paddled "store-bought"

night myself in later years, that it was not merely the

canoes. Carefully noting their stroke, I noticed, too, how

efficiency that attracted him, but the night echoes of

they invariably paddled close to the shore, even though it

loons and owls, the stars above, and the dark, mysterious

took them out of their way. This was partly a precaution,

shores, silhouetted against the night sky. And the long

for in those days few learned to swim. But I think, too,

silences when all you heard was the drip of water from

that it was a traditional practice: if you sighted game

your lifted paddle.

close to the shore, you had a chance of landing in time to

It may have been Angus, too, who taught me that you can tell a novice by how he bends his elbow when he

hunt it down. Seeing you in the middle of the lake, no animal would wait around for you to paddle over.

brings the paddle out of the water for the return stroke.

Of all the Ojibway families that I saw paddling, I can't

An expert relaxes the lower arm while the paddle swings

ever recall seeing the man paddle bow while the wife

wide, almost of its own volition. Angus always paddled

paddled stern but this was, apparently, the earlier

alone. Stories around town suggested that he was not the

traditional pattern. Many years later I ran across the

ideal father or husband, sometimes disappearing for

reproduction of a birchbark drawing in a book by

weeks on end.

Schoolcraft.* It showed a family in a canoe, members

I'll never forget the sight of Angus in a canoe: lean,

identified by their totems. The bear in the bow

alert, his paddle flashing in a tireless rhythm, bending

represented the father. Four little bears, graduated in size,

forward with each stroke for maximum leverage in the

represented the children. The figure in the stern, a carp,

water. His paddle would leap out of the water at the end

was the mother.

of his power stroke, then skim the water, sweeping wide.

In the world of athletic endeavour of the 1920s,

He would feather it for minimum resistance to wind or

Kenora, despite its small size, could hold up its head * Henry Rowe Schoolcraft was a nineteenth century American chronicler of native culture.

17

Daylight in the Swamp among much larger cities. Besides winning the World

Centennial canoe races on television, I was appalled to see

Hockey Championship, Kenora also hosted an

the team from the Northwest Territories using the kids'

international regatta every summer. Athletes from

camp style. They spent more energy shifting from one

Duluth, Winnipeg, Detroit, Port Arthur, and other places

side of the canoe to the other than they could possibly

came to compete in eights, fours, doubles, and singles

have gained by changing. It was particularly painful to

rowing events, as well as inboard motor boat races and

watch how these and other competitors would lift their

two canoe events. In the summer of 1926,1 got to know

paddles high on the return stroke, revealing their lack of

Max Lachapelle, a Canadien in origin, although he spoke

paddling experience. Most of them had probably grown

little French. But in build and the bold cut of his jib he

up in square stern canoes with a kicker* in the back.

was the image of the coureurs de bois who opened up the

Every day Max and I practised two strokes on our

continent. Max was a bit lighter than I was, an ideal

favoured sides: a strong, steady, mile-eating stroke and a

weight to paddle the bow. In addition he had a powerful,

short, spurting stroke. In the sprint we would put

compact body and a gutsy, fighting spirit, the kind that

everything we had into each stroke just as we reached the

would collapse from exhaustion before admitting defeat.

angle of maximum leverage, flipping the paddle forward

We watched the regatta together that summer, deciding in

to dip, just before it reached the critical angle.

our youthful arrogance that we could have given the

When the big day came, we found ourselves lined up

winner of the doubles canoe event, full grown adults, a

at the starting point with men who were anywhere from

run for their money.

half as old again to twice our age. Two husky-looking

The following spring, as soon as the ice was out, we

lumberjacks from Keewatin looked extremely formidable

began to train for the canoe doubles race. The length of

and the word was around that they'd win in a breeze. The

the course, about a half mile, was too long to finish in a

starting gun cracked and the canoes leapt forward. All the

prolonged spurt and too short to gain anything by

way down the course, the two lumberjacks inched ahead,

switching our paddling sides, something we might do

widening their lead in ominous fashion. They led by a full

once in a half-mile stretch, in any event. We eschewed

length as they neared the finish line when Max and I

what I called the "kids' camp" style, where the paddler

turned on our sprinting style. In seconds we were level,

switches sides every few strokes. Years later, watching the

then we crept ahead. In the lead, we could crowd them

* Early bush slang for a small outboard motor.

18

Daylight in the Swamp toward the boom logs that edged the course, leaving us easy winners in the last stretch. Max and I each got a gold medal. My love for the canoe was only the outward and visible sign of a commitment that went deeper, a commitment to the untamed land itself. And although the canoe meant that my bush experience would be confined to the warm weather months, my winter sojourns in Prince Albert and Kenora exposed me to the cooler seasons and gave me, in the end, a year-round perspective on the North.

19

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chapter two

A Few Acres of Snow

Mon pays, ce nest pas un pays, cest Vhiver...

I was born in happier times. Incredible as it may sound to a city-dweller, winter was fun! You can see it in

Gilles Vigneault, the song Mon Pays

KrieghofPs paintings, in prints, and in illustrations from What a big fuss over a little thing. It's like the war with

the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: horseracing on the frozen St. Lawrence river, family visits by

the English which started over a few acres of snow.

sleigh, snowshoe and toboggan.

Voltaire, [undated letter]

Winters in London, Ontario, have depressed me as much as anyone else, but for different reasons. I

Gilles Vigneault, who came from the village of Gaspe

remember.

with the bush at his back door and the Canadien heritage in his blood, channelled into song the deep feelings of

Wearing heavy underwear, my feet in three pairs of

identity that once pervaded the English, as well as the

socks within moose-skin moccasins. Wearing a mackinaw

French-speaking people of this land. Voltaire, on the

coat and a woollen toque, whether in Prince Albert or

other hand, expresses perfectly the prevailing urban

Kenora. The snow creaking crisply underfoot, the sun

attitude toward winter. Canadian city-dwellers,

sparkling on the snow, making me sneeze when I emerged

surrounded by the comforts, conveniences and the deadly

from the house, school-bound on a winter morning.

boredom created by technology, have been selling their

Winter parties, indoors and outdoors. And Christmas!

winter birthright for trips to warmer climes. To them

Who could complain? Skating, skiing, tobogganing,

snow is the nasty, messy, slippery stuff that snarls traffic

snowshoeing, sliding, snowballing the girls when it thawed.

and covers the sidewalks with salty slush.

Could summer offer such delights and in such variety? 21

• Daylight in the Swamp • True, I have idealized some memories and repressed

expanse a mile or two above a future Calgary or

others. Winter was also the time for epidemics of Spanish

Montreal! Surveying the endless fields of ice and snow

flu and diphtheria, a time when pneumonia killed off the

that blanketed the whole land, we'd learn that Canada

very old and the very young, including my younger

was born under snow and ice. We would understand the

brother, Robert. For native people winter survival could

profound truth of Vigneault's phrase: "Mon pays, c'est

be as critical as it was for homesteading families who

Fhiver." These vast glacial bulldozers once ground their

endured long months of frozen isolation.

way well into the northern United States. They bared the

I'll never forget the incredible spectacle of rain in December when I first came to Toronto in 1927. Only in

bones of the land, grinding out that enormous horseshoe around Hudson Bay, the Canadian Shield,

the warm months, at that time, could I feel I was living in

The glaciers shaped a land of erratic rivers and lakes, a

Canada. Winters in southern Ontario seemed distinctly

land that produced the birchbark canoe, the snowshoe,

unCanadian. The heat and humidity of late June and July

and the toboggan. Which brings me back to winters in

in Tropical Ontario, as I call it, made me feel like an alien.

Prince Albert. Even if the first snow came on Hallowe'en

I can recall only three winters in the deep south of

and remained until April, winter was fun.

Ontario when I could believe I was in my native land. As

There were sleighs everywhere. The few people who

a college student in Toronto, I once snowshoed all the

owned cars laid them up for the winter. The sleighs would

way from Queen's Park to Front Street along the piles of

carry cordwood to be cut into stove lengths and split for

white snow that the ploughs had heaped along the curb

the cooking fire. They carried sacks of coal for furnaces,

of University Avenue. I experienced only two other

and groceries. Every kid had his own small sleigh with

winters winters worthy of the name, in 1977 and 1979, in

steel runners.

London, Ontario. Incredibly, snow stayed on the ground,

In December and January, it would be getting dark

reinforced by a blizzard or two, from December to March,

as we dallied our way home from school. The street

And the sun shone almost daily! It was a real winter,

lights would be on as we hauled our sleds over to the

disrupting traffic, closing schools, and costing the

Sixth Avenue hill. Some of us would go down the hill

taxpayers money.

standing up, keeping a precarious balance by holding

What do we know about winter compared with the

the sleigh's tow rope. The more daring would try the

experience of native people for whom it was an annual

Devil's Dip, an almost vertical drop that was kept icy by

test of survival? We can begin to understand by turning

the kids who lived nearby. A roadside ditch at the

the clock back twenty thousand years to stand on a glacial

bottom of Devil's Dip would give you a tremendous

22

• Daylight in the Swamp • flip. If the ice was right and your sled runners were

To the northwest of the town, above Twenty-third

polished to the ultimate smoothness, you could actually

Street, the sloughs had frozen over to make skating rinks

fly across the road.

of various shapes and sizes. We kept them clean with

But when there were girls around, which was most of

shovels and brooms as we congregated there every night

the time, the bob-sleighs were more fun. Older boys built

to skate. Around a huge fire that we kept burning for the

them, simple structures consisting of a stout plank with

duration, we changed from moccasins to skates, which

two wooden blocks attached. Both blocks sported a pair

consisted of blades screwed into the bottoms of special

of steel runners, the back block fixed, the front one mildly

boots. Moving into a succession of older brothers' boots

steerable. The fortunate owner would lie on his belly, his

in turn, I had problems turning the bigger screws, and

hands on the bar across the front runners, to steer. We

even more problems if the skates fell off the boots. Small

would sit on his back, each of us clinging to the person in

kids hobbled around on bob skates. These had double

front, belly to back, feet held high, wide, and off the

blades and made it impossible to learn a good skating

rushing snow. Girls and boys together, we thundered

rhythm. Skis were unknown in Prince Albert then,

down that hill! At the bottom, as we shot along the

Although I had no shortage of friends, I had a

downtown flats, slowly losing momentum, we all heaved

tendency even then to be a loner. As at Sand Lake, there

in rhythm to make the bobsled break the record. All we

was something about the spruce forest that lured me

had to do was cross the CNR tracks.

across the river on many a Saturday. As I snowshoed

Sometimes we would spill, of course, and we would all

deeper into the bush, seeking rabbit runs where I could

skid around in twenty directions, shrieking with laughter,

set my snares, only the faint, cheerful piping of the

But I have no memory of anyone being hurt, in spite of

chickadees accented the awesome silence. Or I might be

all this sliding going on in the middle of a town road

startled as a spruce bough, bending under its weight of

crossed by three streets. Automobile traffic? Who would

snow, would suddenly snap upward, the snow thumping

be stupid enough to drive a car in winter in those days?

quietly below. I can't recall ever actually snaring a rabbit.

Automobiles were for spring, for the mud-rutted roads,

The trapping was only an excuse.

for summer and clouds of dust billowing from the

In Prince Albert cold, sunny days were the winter

wheels. Winter was a clean season, provided you

norm. When the family moved to Kenora we were still far

overlooked the odd snow bank yellowed by dog messages,

from the grey days of a Toronto or London winter. And

or fresh horse droppings mashed into the white roads by

winters were comfortably dry.

passing delivery sleighs.

23

In the 1930s or so, after I had moved to Toronto, I was

• Daylight in the Swamp • invited to spend the Christmas holidays at the farm of my

It was wise on such mornings to rub your nose and

friend Harry Garbutt. We had a memorable trip from

cheeks now and then to make sure they hadn't gone

Toronto through Hamilton and on to Wallacetown in

numb, the first sign of impending frostbite. In Kenora

Harry's unheated Grey Dort. On the farm, Harry and I

where it would have been a sign of weakness for me to

went snowshoeing one day with fresh snow on the

wrap a scarf around my face (like a baby), I developed a

ground and a Fahrenheit temperature in the low twenties.

technique of keeping every muscle of my face active,

Wearing clothes that would have been adequate for

occasionally slapping my cheeks. The most annoying

twenty below in Prince Albert, I was flabbergasted to find

feature of winter life was when my eyelids began to freeze

that a mild wind was chilling me to the bone! For the first

shut. It took a minute or two, holding a mitt over each

time, I learned what damp cold was.

eye in turn, to melt the lids apart. Normally, we wore

After we moved to Kenora, I still knew nothing of this.

thick woollen toques which we pulled well down over our

Winters were a bit shorter than in Prince Albert, but the

ears. If we were careless and failed to cover the whole ear,

snowfall was about the same. And in either place we

we got our lobes nipped.

could expect days of bright sunshine, from late December

Another body part that needed winter protection

to early March, when the Fahrenheit temperature would

were your feet. These days you can get skidoo boots

drop down to twenty or even forty degrees below zero.

warm enough to sweat in at forty below. But the

But no Kenora morning could match the one in Prince

sheepskin lining makes them so large and clumsy they're

Albert when I went to school with the thermometer at a

no good for much else. Well into the 1920s you could

full sixty below (about -48° Celsius). This was long

still walk into a hardware or clothing store and buy a

before school buses picked kids up, when it was routine,

pair of yellow pigskin moccasins with ankle- or calf-

even for kindergarten children, to walk a mile or more to

high split skin tops. Two or three pairs of woollen socks

school—without a lunch. Frozen cheeks, noses or ear-

made these into ideal all-round winter wear. The leather

lobes were so commonly experienced that no one thought

soles were so smooth, however, that I always wore Cree

much of them. I'll never forget a high-school friend,

or Ojibway moccasins, smoke-tanned, sinew-sewn, and

Ernie, who froze both ears so severely that in the course

with an embroidered tongue and wrap-around tops.

of one morning we watched both his ears swell to twice

Made of moose hide, they gave you a grip on slippery

their normal size. All poor Ernie got for his pains, which

snow or ice surfaces. Although I was privileged to get

were considerable, was wide eyes from the girls and crude

them through Dad's missionary connections, simple,

humour from the boys.

unadorned deer- and moosehide, native-made models

24

• Daylight in the Swamp • were available in the same stores that sold the factory-

read well below zero, to see three or four skiers stripped

made pigskin article.

to the waist and actually sweating as they worked out for

In Kenora, the school held toboggan parties on the

a coming competition. Skis had yet to catch on in the east

iced toboggan slide beside the town's professionally built

and I was amazed, when I came to Toronto, to see only a

ski slide. There were snowshoe parties, sleigh rides and

few skiers and these pushing along with only one pole!

parties in the homes of friends. Here, dancing traditions

Toronto, moreover, had no facilities for jumping,

from the old country, like the four-step schottische and

Torontonians, of course, would be lucky to get skiable

the Sir Roger de Coverley, survived. Curiously, the

snow that lasted more than a week.

square dancing of rural Ontario and the far north had

I started too late to become a proficient skier, nor did

either died out or never taken hold in Kenora, as far as I

I ever shine at skating or hockey, in spite of moving to a

know. Before I could go anywhere on a Saturday,

town pre-eminent for its hockey skills. My only excuse

however, I had to split wood for the kitchen stove, take

was that we lived on Tunnel Island at the other end of

out ashes from the coal furnace, or shovel snow, all

town from the Kenora "Thistles" home rink. Moreover,

chores that devolved increasingly on me and my

none of the friends I made at high school were much

younger brothers, Harold and John, as the older

interested in hockey, even though we shared a class with

brothers left home.

Jimmy Ward, who went on to become a star left-winger

Parties were enjoyable, but I preferred to go off for a

for the Montreal Maroons.

hike in the bush or over the frozen lake surface,

This is not to say that I had no background in

sometimes with fellow scouts, sometimes with a single

shooting and stick-handling. In Prince Albert, as well as

chum, and sometimes alone.

Kenora, every boy took his hockey stick to school and

At that time, half the families of Kenora were Swedish

used the frozen "horse buns" that lay copiously along the

Canadian and skis were everywhere. Kids stumbled along

way as hockey pucks. But I was not a good skater. In

on barrel stave skis while some of the grown ups even

Kenora we were lucky if the bay froze over before the next

competed internationally at ski meets in Winnipeg,

snowfall. Then, even if we had good skating for a few

Minneapolis, and other western cities where Swedes had

days, prolonged by shovelling between snowfalls, the ice

settled. The great feature at the Kenora meets was the

soon cracked, letting water creep into an overnight fall of

jumping but the vast Lake of the Woods became ideal for

snow. Skating would then be over until the spring. Only

hundred-mile races when it froze over. It was not

late winter thaws and early spring suns would melt the

uncommon, on a cold, clear day when the thermometer

winter burden of snow and ice, re-freezing them

25

• Daylight in the Swamp • overnight to create a perfect skating surface, broken only

was then a wide lampwick. Once properly tied, it could

by the remnants of winter drifts. One spring, in 1923 I

be kicked off and slipped on again at will.

believe, we could put on our skates at the boathouse and

Like the birchbark canoe, the Algonkian snowshoe was

enjoy the incredible freedom of skating wherever a

designed to meet a variety of conditions, in this case snow

passing whim might take us, no matter how many miles.

that was soft and fresh, powdery, sugary, hard or crusted.

Lake of the Woods became one vast rink.

Only during a thaw, when the snow gets sticky, it tends to

From first freeze until spring breakup, we could hike

build an icy ball under the foot, a ball that must be

on snowshoes in any direction we wanted, over any

knocked off from time to time. Out on the larger frozen

terrain. Skis were fine for frozen lakes, but impossible if

lakes, the snow builds up in drifts. Add the water that

you wanted to cut across land that was heavily bushed.

wells up beneath them when the ice cracks during cold

The Kenora Indian agent, Captain Edwards, was also Boy

snaps, and you might as well be on skis. Sometimes, on

Scout commissioner for the district. One year he offered a

snowshoes, it's damned if you do and damned if you

prize for the best essay entitled "Why I am a Scout". The

don't. Especially when a blizzard of fine snow brings

prize, which I won, turned out to be a pair of hand-crafted

visibility down to zero and you get bogged down in slush

Ojibway snowshoes. They had upturned, pointed noses to

before you know it.

kick through crusted snow that was too thin to take your

Ice and snow held impromptu lessons in the physics of

weight. Like their blunt-nosed cousin, however, they were

winter. For example, going to town in midwinter, whether

still strong enough to trip you if you made a misstep.

for school or for mail, we used a path across the bay made

One of the sights I found most comical on television

by visitors to the hospital. As winter deepened, the path

in later life was some unfortunate actor trying to

caught drifting snow. The visitors unwittingly tramped it

navigate on the peculiar constructions that people today

down until it formed a hard-packed causeway that

call "snowshoes". They try to pick up the whole shoe with

eventually reached the height of the surrounding snow. I

each step and walk like someone wearing diapers. When

didn't realize this until that early spring day when the

a snowshoe is properly designed and bound to the foot,

pole I always carried suddenly went right through the ice

the tail remains constantly on the snow and it's as easy to

beside the path.

run as to walk. Today's snowshoes come with a clumsy,

Freezeup came gradually, as a rule. The night would be

leather harness. There is no provision for the simple

calm and the temperature would drop abruptly. In the

binding that everyone used fifty years ago. Originally

morning, when I went down to the water, I'd hear hear a

made of deerhide or moosehide, the favoured binding

tinkling all along the shore, lined with little ice fragments 26

• Daylight in the Swamp • that looked for all the world like broken glass. Or I would

Winnipeg River shore on the north side of Tunnel Island,

wake up early one November morning to see the whole

On my solitary hikes I used to test its strength, in the

bay glazed over until a wind came up to break it. We

foolish way kids have, to see whether it would hold my

would watch and pray on such a day, hoping that the ice

weight. If it hadn't, I would have plunged into the icy

would hold, that a second night would make it durable,

river water with little chance of getting out. But this

and that no snow would fall on its surface, ruining it. In

merely added zest to the adventure. I remember watching

Prince Albert we had watched the ponds and sloughs

with intense interest as my brother Albert similarly tested

with equal intensity, testing them with sticks and stones

the ice at the base of the big hydro dam at Norman,

to see how thick they were. In this connection, "rubber

In midwinter, as the ice in Kenora Bay got thicker and

ice" offered a special thrill. It made a fascinating sport to

stronger, it would expand and contract with variations in

glide or walk over ice barely thick enough to support me

temperature until it cracked, growled, and sang with the

but thin enough to bend under my weight, rippling.

stress. Curiously, I can't recall ever having heard a tree

Hanging ice had another lesson to teach. After freeze-

crack as it split in the frost. But I have never lived in the

up in the autumn, as the swamps and creeklets that fed

bush during the winter months. I had one opportunity,

the streams began to falter, all the water levels in the

During the Christmas holidays my friend Smitty and I

larger streams and lakes began to fall. On the sloping

decided to camp overnight in the bush. We loaded our

shores of the larger lakes, the ice merely sagged. When

grub and gear onto a toboggan, which Bob, Smitty's

water levels dropped even more, the ice cracked and

Scotch collie, hauled quite cheerfully. In places where the

water soaked into the snow and over the ice. This in

snow was soft we had to break trail or help pull,

turn froze on the surface, but often slush lay just under

Snowshoes for dogs had yet to be invented,

this crust. Crossing an innocent-looking lake, it was

Our destination was Pine Portage Bay, about twelve

startling, at first, to feel myself plunge through the top

miles from town and a couple of miles past the Sultana

crust. For a split second, before my feet met solid ice

gold mine. We had planned to build a brush shelter and

below the slush, I would think I was going right

an all-night log fire facing its length. But, at the end of the

through. But where the shore drops away abruptly in the

bay we stumbled across an unused trapper's cabin. There

shadow of a sheer rock face, the main ice may break

was a stove but someone had made off with the door. By

sharply away from ice that still grips the shore rock. This

this time we were cold, tired, and hungry enough to lower

leaves a shelf of ice that literally hangs.

radically our standards of winter camping. We lifted the

There was always a lot of hanging ice along the

27

table to lean it against the open doorway, got a fire

• Daylight in the Swamp • roaring in the stove, cooked our supper, and lit a candle.

a chance that just as the ice is getting thick enough to

We had scorned to bring a flashlight. Our preparations

bear your weight, warm air from the south will postpone

for bed were somewhat unwilling because the table

ice formation for three or four days. Worse, a sudden

covered only two-thirds of the doorway and the cold air

two- or three-day cold snap may strand the traveller by

which poured in made a mockery of our efforts to warm

air or water a week or more.

the cabin.

Spring breakup is the more hazardous period. On

We tried sleeping alone but Smitty's bedroll was not

large prairie and shield rivers it comes with a rush, as

made for winter temperatures so he moved in with me. In

rising waters and strong currents move the ice swiftly

the capacious, down-filled sleeping blanket that Dad used

downstream. Unless there is an unpredictable jam, fifty

for his Arctic journeys, we finally dozed off to sleep the

miles of river can clear overnight. In Prince Albert, when

sleep of the dead.

we learned the ice was going out we'd run down to the

Rising in the morning was something else. The cabin

North Saskatchewan and watch the dramatic turbulence

was cold. Very cold. It didn't help much that we had

of the river, tossing brown cakes of ice as it rushed by. Or

slept in our clothes. Except for the warmth of the little

we'd stand on the bridge and thrill to the dynamite blasts

tin stove, we might as well have slept outside. When I

they'd set upstream to break the jam.

tried to cook breakfast, my hands were so stiff that the

When we came to Kenora I learned how differently

first egg dropped out of my fingers to the plank floor—

spring breakup came to the lake country. During the first

and bounced! For dinner we had brought potatoes and

spring, the bay ice opened up a bare seventy-five yards

turnips for a beef stew, but the potatoes proved

from our boathouse. I was so eager to get my canoe into

impossible to peel. We finally put one on a stump and

the water that I lifted it out onto the ice. Straddling it, I

took pot-shots at it with a .22 rifle we had also brought.

alternately lifted and shoved until I reached the open

But even a direct hit merely flattened out on the

water. It was a simple matter, then, to push the canoe

surface. We didn't stay a second night. We only knew

until it teetered on the edge of the ice, shifting my weight

how little we knew about winter camping.

forward (now creeping inside the canoe) until the weaker

In the Shield country there are periods of ten days to

ice gave away and we gently subsided into the water. It

two weeks when all travel is suspended, during freezeup

was rather frustrating, however, to be limited to an

and again during breakup. Even today, a bush aircraft that

opening of water no more than a hundred feet long and

depends on winter skis or summer floats for take-offs and

forty wide.

landings will remain grounded. In the fall there is always

I learned what produced these openings. Wherever

28

• Daylight in the Swamp • there was current under the ice, as was the case offshore

the water. By this time there might well be enough open

from our boathouse, the ice eroded underneath, with no

water to launch a boat. When the boat struck the edge of

hint on the surface of how thin it was getting. I remember

candled ice, ledges would collapse into a slush made up of

a spring hike with Smitty out on the ice of a little lake. It

thousands of tiny, floating slivers.

was a long time, we thought, before breakup. The lake ice

The end of winter was near. When the wind came up,

seemed solid enough. But suddenly, as we clattered on

waves washed against the crumbling ice. The wind

our snowshoes over the lake, I found myself in the water,

pushed the slush to one side of the lake or the other,

spreading my arms wide on the ice around me. While I

according to its direction. Meanwhile, the sun was higher

tried to get out, Smitty stood helpless with laughter at the

every day, the water gradually warmed, and on one

look of pained surprise on my face. He continued to

bright, windy day, one awakened to find the whole lake

laugh as I got one foot up on more solid ice, then rolled

blue and sparkling from shore to shore.

over toward him. Fortunately we were near our

Winters die hard. In spruce thickets that face north,

destination, a cosy cabin with friends waiting in the

snow may linger far into June. Inland pools of ice water

warmth of a Quebec heater. I'd gotten out of the icy water

collect between hummocks of moss. In the pools,

quickly enough to suffer no unpleasant aftereffects.

mosquito larvae await their metamorphosis into the

Another weakening influence on the ice was almost as invisible. In Kenora, everyone burned wood or coal for winter heating and there must have been a lot of soot in the air. For example, if I wanted to know how cold a day it was, I only had to glance out the window facing town. Since windless days were the coldest, if the smoke was going straight up, I'd know the temperature had taken a sharp dive overnight. Whether it was particles of dust or particles of smoke that accumulated on the bay with each snowfall, "candling" also weakened the ice. As each tiny particle warmed under the spring sun, it would melt its way down into the ice, week after week. These minute pits honeycombed the surface. The ice remained more or less solid until the candling process worked its way down to 29

humming clouds that make life miserable for bush workers from May to July.

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chapter three

Bush aApprentic Bush Apprenticeship

They got two logs and put them near enough together for

Albert to Kenora. The northern half of the diocese then

the tea can to rest upon. Then they make the fire between the

coincided with the Territorial District of Keewatin, and it

logs using small stuff, then bigger until they have a roaring

was Dad who established the two Anglican missions to

fire. It does not take them long before the water is boiling

the Innu. He installed Don Marsh (later Bishop Marsh) at

and the tea boiling in it. They also make bannock using

Eskimo Point, and Bill James at the remote Hudson's Bay

flour, beef fat and baking powder . . . knead it in the frying

post at Baker Lake. He also brought a man named Gibson

pan and set it before the fire held up by a stick stuck in the

over from England to fill the vacant mission at Churchill

ground against which the frying pan leans. As soon as it is

and minister to the Chipewayan people there. The year

firm, they take it out and set it edgeways . . . held up by a

1923 marked the first of what would be twice-yearly trips

stick while they start another in the pan. Then they boil the

into the far north. On these he would install missionaries,

meat, goose or duck or rabbit in the tin . . . stir it with a stick

confirm candidates for adult church membership, or

and in a little while it is done well enough . . . they gather

consult with incumbents on current problems.

around and eat the bannock dipping it in the soup in the pot

That year he took in young Leslie Garrett as the first

and taking out a leg or a wing and gnawing the meat off it.

ordained missionary at Big Trout Lake, the largest Cree-

A letter from Bishop Dewdney, dated at York Factory,

Ojibway community in Ontario north of the English and

Manitoba, July 31,1923

Albany Rivers. But this was at the invitation of people who had been prosyletized nearly a quarter of a century

Dad's election as the second Bishop of Keewatin

earlier. They had been converted to evangelical

(pronounced Kee-way-tin) moved our family from Prince

Anglicanism by a catechist named William Dick from

31

Daylight in the Swamp Figure 6,

Locomotive

York Factory. Dick had single-handedly done the same

horizon. The parties slept while stranded to complete the

for half a dozen other northern bands, so effectively that

journey later, when the tide came in. At York Factory the

native catechists had carried on since the turn of the

Hudson Bay supply schooner took them south along the

century. This created the curious situation that the more

bay shore to Fort Severn. Here the fur brigade from Big

isolated northern communities had converted more

Trout and other fur posts waited to deliver the year's fur

thoroughly to Christianity than their southerly

take and pick up the annual delivery of mail, groceries,

neighbours after three hundred years of exposure to

and trade goods for the inland posts. The three-week trip

missionary efforts.

up the Severn and Fawn Rivers was rough, with miles of

In 1923, access to Hudson Bay was by the long sea

"tracking", Dad's first experience of northern canoe travel.

voyage from Montreal or the somewhat precarious

All of this explains how, at the age of eighteen, I had

passage by gas car over the deteriorating Hudson Bay

a chance to serve my bush apprenticeship and to get a

Railway. Dad took Garrett to Big Trout Lake by the latter

glimpse of Ojibway, Cree, Chipewayan and Innu

route. The line ended at Port Nelson, which had an

communities that I would never have gotten to know

artificial harbour created by running the tracks out to

otherwise. Although I had not gone with Dad on that

deep water on steel trestles. They were met at the end of

first trip, I now had the chance to tag along on the

the line by a freight canoe that lay in the mud when the

second trip. He'd had a gall bladder operation following

tide went out, exposing flats that extended over the

the first trip and someone had talked him into taking

32

• Daylight in the Swamp • me along as a travelling companion.

(known in the trade as "silk"), and a capacious sleeping

Our route was a novel one. We went by rail from

robe. He and I were both meticulous about packing the

Kenora to Riverton, a port on the west side of Lake

tent dry as soon as possible. As a result, the tent is still

Winnipeg. From Riverton we took a boat over to

useable, except during a heavy rain when a little spray

Manigotagan and the Salteaux-Ojibway mission at Hole

may come through. The robe, I suspect, will last forever. I inherited both after Dad's retirement. Moses Gore, a pillar of the Jack River church and a widely noted canoeman, took the stern. The second canoeman, whose name I can't recall, might more aptly have been called our "oarsman". Going up the swift Gunisao River, he sat amidships in our canvas-covered eighteen-foot freight canoe, which was fitted with oarlocks for just such travel. Dad travelled "Hudson Bay", that is, as a passenger. I paddled bow. When we camped, I slipped behind the somewhat blurred class barrier of HBC tradition to eat my meals with Dad from a separate grub box. The two Cree were

Figure 7, Aerial photograph of Norway House, 1928

limited to their HBC rations of flour, lard, baking powder for bannock, white beans and "sowbelly" (fat pork). They

River. From there we embarked on the passenger steamer

put this last item to soak during the working day, then

that took us north to Jack River, a couple of miles

boiled a pork and beans meal in it at night. Fifty years

upstream from Norway House, then still active as the

earlier the Hudson Bay Company would have issued them

main collection and distribution centre for the whole

prairie pemmican. But in the earliest days of the fur trade

western fur trade. Meeting the missionary at Jack River,

the staple ration was parched corn, grown and prepared

we proceeded down to Norway House, where we hired

by refugee Hurons at Michilimackinac.

two Cree canoemen and picked up supplies for the fivehundred-mile trip due east to Big Trout.

There was no class barrier when it came to portaging. Although Dad was in his sixty-fifth year, he more than

Dad already had complete camping gear, including a

pulled his weight. He certainly sweated more than any of

six-by-six foot wedge tent made of Egyptian cotton

us, but this may also have had something to do with his

33

• Daylight in the Swamp • conviction that by wearing heavy woollen underwear all

Ascending the swift, turbulent Gunisao made an

summer he kept himself from overheating! He put no

effective beginning for my apprenticeship. Portaging was

load on his back, but carried instead two suitcases. One

an entirely new experience for me. On Lake of the Woods

was large and heavy, the other smaller. Even the small

you could map out a two hundred-mile canoe route

suitcase would become quite heavy by the end of a long

through the labyrinth of channels without ever having to

portage. I can still see the sweat dripping from his face,

lift your craft from the water. As bow man and traveler, I

blood running from blackfly bites behind his ears and

had a hundred things to learn and not a few to re-learn,

perhaps above an eye, swelling it almost shut. On top of

The use of oars was the first shock to my preconceived

these hardships, his upper denture broke a week after we

notions of cultural "purity". As I came to understand how

started and for the next month he ate nothing but

adaptive our Cree canoemen were, I began to realize that

"slops"—hard tack soaked in tea or soup.

in this country you latched onto any innovation that

I never heard this unlordly "Lord Bishop" utter a word

reduced the burden and hazard of bush life,

of complaint. My respect for him was the greater

I was too inferior to our canoemen to allow any

knowing that his work in Saskatchewan had done

arrogant white man's notions of the stoical, lazy, and

nothing to prepare him for bush travel. Driving a horse

humourless "Indian" to linger in my mind. But my image

and buggy or a Model T Ford over prairie trails scarcely

of native people was nevertheless transformed when we

prepared him for episcopal travel in the Shield country.

came to a series of rapids too shallow for the loaded

At the then tiny outpost of Island Lake, we were

canoe but accessible by poling. We unloaded the canoe on

fortunate enough to run into a party on their way back to

the bank of the Gunisao. The crew paddled out to

Norway House. They agreed to take Dad's dental plate

midstream, then exchanged their paddles for poles. At the

with them on the steamer to Selkirk and to send it on by

foot of the rapids, the Cree in the bow found a grip on

train to Dad's Kenora dentist. Whether it could be

the bottom with his pole, then held the canoe in the

repaired and sent back in time to catch us at York Factory

current until the other Cree, Moses, found his grip. Both

we had no way of knowing. It would have to go by train

men would shove the canoe forward, standing and

and gas car to Port Nelson and around to York Factory

putting all their weight into the thrust. Then they had to

either by canoe or power boat. It would be several more flash their poles forward to get new purchase and thrust years before the first bush plane would fly as far north as

forward again. If the bow were to swing only a few inches

Hudson Bay and then only for mineral exploration north

off course, the current would have swung the craft

of Churchill.

broadside, rolling it over the first rock and giving the men

34

• Daylight in the Swamp • a rough, wet ride. It could severely damage the canoe as

shoulder level. By this time, he would be leaning well

well. So these lightning swings of the poles from side to

forward with his head down to take the weight off

side just averted disaster and a pole that slipped on the

his neck.

bottom had to find a new hold in a split second. Watching

I did all these things, adding (as he did) a dunnage bag

the two men shouting and laughing with excitement,

across my shoulders and against my neck to bring

plying their poles with the skill and zest of decades of

comfort. Finally, we would secure the whole load by

mastery as they steadily worked their way to the top of

swinging a light tent bag over our heads, hanging on with

the rapids, changed forever my image of the first

one hand to the draw strings of the bag and letting it rest

Canadians. As we met them on the portage, coming back

equally on the back load and the back of our head. Now

for their loads, they had a gleam of triumph in their eyes.

we were ready to stand up (as well as we could), to give

At the first portage on the Gunisao, Moses introduced

the whole load a settling shake, centre the strap on the

me to northern portaging techniques. The key to the

forehead and look around for an axe, paddle or tea pail to

stability and capacity of the load was the wooden grub

carry with the free hand.

box. About the size of a large grocery carton, it carried

Finally, all we needed was to face the portage path and

everything you needed for daily meals: staples like flour,

let the weight of the load push us forward. It was then

tea, baking powder, and salt; the canned or dried foods

that I understood the experienced gait of my

you favoured; cutlery, plates, cups, candles, matches, and

companions. They moved at a half trot, twisting their

so on. A portage strap, consisting of two six-foot leather

hips so that they glided, rather than bounced, along the

belts stitched to a wide leather headband, was

trail. That way their load remained balanced and secure.

indispensable. Moses showed me a special hitch (actually

On a long portage, when I felt my neck was breaking or

a simple slip knot) which he looped around either end of

my legs were giving out on a steep grade, I would watch,

the grub box. He kept the strap long enough that with the

as they did, for a deadfall of just the right height to rest

headband firmly against his forehead, the box rested on

my load on without taking it off my back. Failing that, a

his back at hip level, like a platform. A second item with a

boulder would suffice, or I would just sit on the ground.

flat surface, such as a pack sack on its side would go on

The latter option raises only one problem, that of getting

next. Here Moses would get up on his feet to make sure

on your feet again!

the load was balanced. Then he would look around for

Travelling the five hundred miles from Norway House

something bulky but lighter, like a carton of dried food,

to Big Trout Lake, I thought I was encountering every

hoisting it over his head to settle on the pack sack at

possible kind of trail and terrain. On later trips in other

35

Daylight in the Swamp • carrying the eighteen-foot canoe over the portages routinely and with ease. Some carrying places were easy to spot: a tripod of spruce poles where meat had been smoked, a grassy sward, axe marks on a tree stump. Others were in the last place you'd expect to find them: a steep rock beside the falls or a particular gap, among dozens, in the willows along the shore. I recall one portage at the head of a sluggish little winding stream. It had a soft bottom in which neither paddles nor poles could operate. We had to pull ourselves along by the overhanging alders, and where Figure 8. Two men ponder map

you began the portage would depend on the depth of

parts of the country, I learned that the variations are

water and where you finally got stuck. You went ashore

almost infinite. Nevertheless, the portages we made on

when you had to.

the Big Trout trip gave me an adequate perspective on

Of course, bush trips by canoe for business purposes

what I was likely to encounter elsewhere in the Canadian

are obsolete today, but it is heartening to see how many

Shield. A certain, broad pattern held for almost every

younger people are taking ambitious trips for the sheer

portage.

challenge of it. As the provincial Ministries of Natural

First, you had to locate the beginning of the portage

Resources and Parks and Recreation map out canoe

trail, the carrying place, as your canoe approached the

routes and establish camps, it has become increasingly

shore. This was easy enough in the south where rangers

necessary for the adventurous to travel farther afield.

had marked the landing places with signs, but on a trip

Maps are now so available, even for remote areas, that

like the Big Trout you needed someone who knew the

some of the challenge has disappeared. In the 1920s the

route. Otherwise you'd waste time searching the shore

only available maps, based on triangulation surveys, were

as you neared the roar of fast water. When we came to

altogether useless for following the kind of route our

Island Lake, neither Moses nor his crewmate knew the

canoemen followed. There were no indications of where

way east, so we had to take on a third man. Abraham,

the portages were, nor of their length. Our canoemen

young and powerfully built, not only found his way

carried maps in their heads, a series of landmarks learned

with uncanny skill, but shamed the other two by

in the company of someone who knew the route. But

36

• Daylight in the Swamp • even after a single trip, to find one's way through the

mature white poplars or an area of sandy ground through

bewildering labyrinth of Shield waterways without map

glades of jack pine. I don't recall seeing either kind of

or compass involves skills beyond the comprehension of

pleasantness on that trip. I do recall one steep grade over

twentieth century technological society.

a great hogsback of bedrock where the trail simply

On the trip to Big Trout I was a lowly apprentice, more ignorant than a Cree lad half my age would have been.

vanished. Luckily, Moses was following just closely enough to see me vanishing into a nearby swamp. He had probably been keeping an eye on me for just such

"How much farther is it?" "How long before we get there?"

occasions. At another point the portage crossed a dry stream bed,

"How soon will we be making camp?"

probably a spring overflow channel, where boulders of

"How long is this portage?"

every size and shape demanded the footwork that a heavy back load made impossible, one of the few times that

Such questions were on my mind again and again

summer that I regretted not wearing moccasins. The big

during the trip. But I knew better than to ask them. Dad

boulders were always a little too far apart to step from

didn't know the answers, anyway, and pride prevented me

one to another and, invariably, as I found my way around

from revealing impatience or weariness to men whose

little boulders I would come to a huge one that I had no

patience appeared infinite, whose energy seemed endless.

way around. I would have to straddle it, load and all, to

A mere liftover was obvious, of course. Whether the

work my legs over it.

river spilled over a lip of bedrock or frothed its way

I was not long on that portage before I learned why

momentarily between great boulders, you could see all

the people of that region were called "Swampy Cree".

you had to do. Lift your luggage over without putting it

Every quarter mile or so the portage would dip down to a

on your back. Then follow with the lightened canoe and

flat area where the drainage was poor or even

within minutes you were on your way again.

nonexistent. Sometimes it would be spruce swamp, where

At the opposite extreme there was the five-mile

I sought roots to stand on to keep out of the soft mud.

portage we made somewhere between Island and Sachigo

Conversely, in an alder swamp I tried to avoid the

Lakes. The only thing to be said in favour of that

treacherous, slanting roots, which were as slippery as

interminable trail was the surprising variety of obstacles

banana peels. They would topple you sideways as soon as

that it offered to weary travellers. Nothing is more

you stepped on them. In the spruce swamp I might run

pleasant than a dry, hard-packed trail through a stand of

into unadulterated muskeg, where the bed of a former

37

• Daylight in the Swamp • shallow lake had filled with rotting vegetation over the

mosquitoes that surrounded us. They formed a thick

centuries to be overgrown with hummocks of sphagnum

scum on the tea and invaded our mouths every time we

moss and Labrador tea, where an occasional stunted

lifted our nets to take a bite of food. Only behind the

spruce would struggle for a foothold. Lacking an

cheesecloth curtains of our tents did we find any respite

experienced eye and foot, I frequently sank to the knee or

and only then after we had singed the wings of each beast

even the crotch in the soft, black muck. With a load of

by the flame of the candle as we hunted them along the

eighty to one hundred pounds on my back and the

tent wall. This was before the days of spray repellents,

suction of the muck, it was a bit wearying to extricate myself, only to sink again a few paces further on. "Muskeg" is an Algonkian word for this special kind of bog, as different from an Irish bog, say, as the Rockies from the mountains of Antrim.

Readers who think the North is uninhabited might

In the shade of the bush a faithful following of

consider its sociable insects. Human beings may be

mosquitoes awaited our passage, and in the sunny

sparsely represented, but few areas of the world have a

passages hordes of blackflies sought their share of the rich

denser population of little creatures so devoted to other

red beverage we provided. We all wore head-nets of fine- inhabitants. mesh cheesecloth with transparent visors. But the visors

I am not an entomologist, but I have some empirical

would cloud over and the netting created an airless

knowledge worth sharing with readers who have ventured

condition that tempted beginners like me to lift the net

this far into the bush of my memoirs. Experts describe

for respite, exposing my skin instantly to the blood lust of

bees, ants, and so on, as social insects because they like to

these minuscule monsters.

live together. But you could not really call such insects

But even our veteran canoemen had to lift their veils

sociable since they take very little interest in humans,

to eat. On one long portage the sun was setting as we

Each species in the order of insects I call sociable, from

emerged onto the edge of a huge swamp. There were

sand fleas to moose flies, seeks intimacy with the human

glints of water here and there through the bulrushes, but

kind. Some attachments, as in the case of the mosquito,

our guides decided it would be dark before we got to

are prolonged. Other engagements, as with the quick visit

open water. There was no alternative but to make our

of the bulldog fly, are fleeting. My own introduction to

camp on what proved to be the worst site of the summer,

the order had come early.

To this day I have seen nothing like the grey clouds of

Proceeding systematically, let me begin with the

38

• Daylight in the Swamp • smallest of them all, the sand flea. It has been aptly called

the females bite) is a delicately built little creature. Let her

the "no-seeum". It is said, and I have evidence, that the

settle on your arm and watch her at work. You scarcely

no-seeum can fly through a window screen without

feel the entry of her hypodermic and the small flood of

folding its wings. To enjoy its attentions to the full, you

anti-coagulant. Interesting how her abdomen swells into

must sleep outdoors in a grassy or sandy place, snugly

a little ruby. Do not, in a sudden rage at this violation of

ensconced in a bedroll. Just as you drop off to sleep an

your person, squash her with a heavy hand. You will make

arm becomes unaccountably itchy. You relieve that with a

a mess of her blood (no longer yours) and mash a tiny

lazy scratch when your other arm begins to itch. The

masterpiece of nature into a formless grey smear.

word has gone around: "Attack." Suddenly your whole

Most readers are familiar with her musical gifts. She is

body is itching, then burning. You leap out of your

no coward but sings as she comes, giving due warning of

bedroll, unable to see your little visitors. Not only is it

her intent. It is a plaintive and interesting song, unlike the

getting dark, the visitors are incredibly small. The best

horrifying unison of a grey swarm. The solitary mosquito

thing you can do is jump in the lake. Failing that, give

approaches her victim daintily. From a distance she

yourself a good towelling and sit by a fire all night. Better

watches for signs of somnolence. There is no hint of

still, move your camp to a place with no sand, no grass or,

unrestrained greed. Gently, she tests your reactions with

at least, a gentle night breeze.

an approaching hum. Closer and closer she circles. Wide

To do the little creatures justice, they are not true

awake now, you listen, paying no attention to a

fleas. It's quite interesting to watch them in daylight as

sympathetic itch here or there. Wait for an authentic

they work their little heads right into a pore in your

landing. Ah! She's on your ear. Slap! Ouch! Silence. Did

skin. A sudden burning sensation becomes an itch.

you get her? Her eerie hum begins again in the middle

There's no satisfaction in squashing them. All you see is

distance. Wait as her hum gets louder. Hold your fire as

a minute smudge.

her wings brush your cheek. She's just playing with you.

Taken all in all, the no-seeum is a sort of filler,

Now she's on your nose. Wait for the probe to go in. Now!

prepared to go to work when there's nothing bigger around to plague you. The mosquito is bigger and certainly much more visible. On a cold morning it flies

Is your nose bleeding? Did you get her? There's that damned hum again.

sluggishly around you in the outhouse. Gratifying to grab it out of the air, squeeze it and drop it to the floor,

When they gather in great numbers, mosquitoes

unmistakably dead. Actually, she (I understand that only

become a whole new monster. Have you ever seen those

39

Daylight in the Swamp movie renditions of a Plains Indian on his horse? Except

crystal clear northern stream? As everyone knows, the

for his breechclout, he is naked. He can afford to be. The

mosquito spawns in stagnant pools and swamps, a

wind has kept the air free of the clouds of insects that

tranquil environment, where it enjoys a relaxed child-

might otherwise make life miserable for him. What then

hood. The blackfly larva knows no tranquillity. It clings

do Woodland Indians like the Cree wear in the bush

desperately to the wet rock in rushing water.

where there is no escape from the bloodthirsty hordes?

During my bush travels, I have developed an acute

On the trip to Big Trout Lake, our Cree canoemen were

awareness of the little fiends. They seem to have a devilish

fully clothed. Had they become aculturated by life on the

contract with the mosquitoes to operate in relays. On

Mission? Did the black felt hat and long trousers

portages, for example, the mosquitoes work the shade

represent their idea of a soft life? They certainly didn't

and the blackflies take over in the sunny patches. Their

wear so much clothing to keep warm in the blazing

most sinister quality is that you seldom see or hear them

summer sun. They fairly ran with sweat along the portage

when it counts most. A quick hand can catch a mosquito

path. No, it must have been the flies, particularly the

in flight, but blackflies fly a swift and erratic pattern like

mosquitoes, that they dressed for. Even so, they were

dancing points of black light. And you never know when

attacked, just as Dad and I were.

they land. You only feel a little something crawling on

I recall one Cree stoically carrying a canoe on his back

your skin, give the area a vague swat and forget about it.

some twenty yards ahead of me along a portage. He

Alas, that was your only warning. This sub-arctic tse-tse

trailed a cloud of mosquitoes so dense that at times I

fly takes its fill painlessly. You might not begrudge it your

could no longer see him, just the cloud. Yet, at the end of

blood if it were not so damn wasteful. Instead of drinking

the portage, he rolled the canoe off his back with no

daintily from a straw like the mosquito, it bites a wound

expression of relief or of aggravation on his face.

and laps but a modicum of what gushes out. The wound

It was on the voyage down the Fawn and Severn Rivers

may bleed for several minutes, leave a red mark, and be

following these portages, that I first made the

sore for a day or more. Worse, your whole system may be

acquaintance (may the day be forever damned) with the

poisoned by a host of the little devils.

greediest, sneakiest and most fervent servant of

The nastiest feature of the blackfly is its sneaky

Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies. I refer to the vampire of

nature. A mosquito will land and drink anywhere that

the insect world, the blackfly.

skin is exposed. Not the cowardly little crawler. It seeks

Who would ever guess that this misbegotten mini-

out cracks and crannies like the fold behind the ear, the

monster first sees the light of day in the fast water of a

crease of a nostril, corners of eyes and mouth. Failing 40

• Daylight in the Swamp • this, it works along the hairline or beyond it, burying

The moose fly, also known as the bulldog or horse fly,

itself to work invisibly. You will not know it until much

has no subtle arts of approach. It zooms around you in

later when your comb meets blood-clotted hair and a

great circles, then swoops in for the kill. Although people

sizeable bump.

frequently accuse it of biting out huge chunks of flesh, it

The sociable insects have arranged things so that each

merely applies a kind of vacuum pump to your skin. It

species has its own special season. Mosquitoes peak in

feels like a vacuum pump, too. It loves swimmers and

Figure 9, Forest Friends Feasting (on my arm!)

mid-June, closely followed by blackflies, which are

sun-bathers. (If it does any good at all, the moose fly

already plentiful, but which arrive at their own peak

helps prevent skin cancer by driving over-exposed

early in the tourist season. In August these two enemies

campers out of the sun.) The moose fly has one chink in

of humanity are relatively scarce. Campers begin to enjoy

its armour, however. It has a very slow takeoff. If you're

the warm water, fresh breezes, and cool nights only to

quick, you can kill them on landing or, once they've taken

confront other pests.

their pound of flesh, you can extract the maximum

Of the fifty-odd species of flies one finds in the North,

revenge with ease.

three breeds seem determined to remind us that God's

Much the same applies to the deer fly, the name I use

country isn't quite perfect. In order of descending size,

for a fly that is between a moosefly and housefly in size.

these are the moose fly, deer fly, and dog fly. Unlike the

Its bite is less formidable except for a variety that has a

early summer shifts, they don't depend on calm air to get

decorative black pattern on otherwise transparent

to their hosts. They love a windy day.

wings. This one seems to produce secondary

41

• Daylight in the Swamp • complications like the swelling of a whole arm or leg.

Always on the exposed ankle. Invariably you don't

There's nothing more blissful than a day in mid-

expect it. Invariably the little nipper, a dogfly, escapes.

August. You and your partner are paddling across a wide

Indistinguishable from a small housefly, the dogfly can

stretch of water, miles from any shore, quartering into a

bite through heavy bush socks with mysterious ease.

gusty wind just cool enough to temper the heat of the

There's no swelling or itching afterwards, just that one

sun. Overhead, white, fleecy clouds whip across the

absolutely savage and completely uncalled for nip. Being

empyrean. At one with yourself and your partner, and, for

too brief to provide any nourishment for the dogfly, I

that matter with the universe, you breathe deeply the

must assume the nip is just its way of being sociable.

clean pure air, your brain cleansed of urban concerns. In short, you're feeling good. And then—ouch! Figure 1 0. Character studies

I have never felt so thankful nor understood so well the need, for a seventh day on which to rest as I did on that trip. On Sundays, by Biblical command, we obeyed regardless of contingencies such as location or schedule. Our three canoemen, all devout churchmen, each carried a dog-eared prayer book in Cree syllabics. Every evening as well Dad conducted a brief prayer session, reading the Lord's Prayer in Cree. And we sang a hymn or two to the accompaniment of my mouth organ. On some portages I ran into trouble through my determination to show my native tutors that I was no weakling. With a hefty load already on my back, unable to bend down without my knee collapsing, I'd point to one more item for a top load. Moses would look at me quizzically but cheerfully accede and I'd go staggering up the trail. After the first hundred yards the load would become intolerable, the nerves of my neck and spine 42

• Daylight in the Swamp • would shriek for relief, the open skin would itch

where the water was only a foot or two deep. I stripped

massively, and the sweat would pour in rivulets from

and stepped in.

every pore of my body. Sometimes I would swallow my

The next thing I knew, I was holding onto the rock for

pride and take a rest while the others passed by. But as

dear life, my feet searching for bottom in the black muck.

time went on, I would endure the agony knowing that

It was an instant reflex, it probably saved my life. I

just when I reached the point of collapse there would be

climbed out onto the rock, dressed and, as I made my way

a glint of light down the trail. I would feel a faint

back to camp, fantasized what could have happened.

stirring in the air and as it began to cool my sweat-

Floundering in the muck. Going under. Opening my

soaked shirt, a surge of strength would walk me on to

mouth to yell for help only to have it fill with loonshit.

emerge by open shore.

Going down again. Nobody worrying about me back at

I'd sink to the ground, slip off my load, and experience

the camp. Going down again. Choking. Blacking out as

such exquisite relief from a gentle breeze off the water

the sun set and darkness cloaks the scene. Moses finding

that I could have shouted with the joy of it. Then, two

my white corpse half buried in the black muck.

quick tugs on the slip knots of the portage strap would

I cannot leave this account of my bush apprenticeship

release it for the return trip. I'd loop the strap and start

without paying tribute to our canoemen. Not merely to

up the trail again, my back so relieved of its load that I

their intelligence in finding their way to a given

felt as if I were walking on air. Nevertheless, I'd race

destination without map or compass, depending only on

joyously back along the trail to load myself with another

their memory of subtle clues and landmarks. But to their

intolerable burden.

untiring energy, the exact antithesis of the "lazy Indian"

If we camped early after a hard day's slogging I might cool off in the water to refresh myself, unless it was a fly-

stereotype. Invariably, they were up at first light, loading the canoe while Dad and I finished breakfast.

infested creek with an inhospitable, willowed bank.

Around noon we usually had a tea break. But no break

Nearing Big Trout Lake on a long, hot day, we camped at

in the city office was over so fast. We'd barely be out of

the end of a shallow bay. The bottom was black muck,

the canoe before one of the men had collected two thick

none too fragrant. So I walked along the rock shore of the

handfuls of dry spruce twigs while another thrusted a

inlet, expecting to get out to deep water and leave the

sharpened green stick into the ground at a slant. The

muck behind. But the going was rough. Old fire slash

twigs would flame up at the touch of a match and within

with deadfall lay every which way. So I decided to simply

seconds the tea pail of lake water would be boiling. The

wade out to deep water from a point on the rocky shore

men would throw in a generous handful of tea leaves, let

43

Daylight in the Swamp it boil vigorously for a while, set it aside to steep, then douse it with a half cup of cold water to settle the leaves. I call the result "bush tea" a powerful brew with enough tannin to coat the walls of your stomach, so bitter that I would throw twice the normal amount of sugar into my cup. Dad and I both added condensed milk in lieu of the lunch our canoemen had no time for. They drank their tea straight, passing the pail back and forth for the rest of the day, whenever they thirsted. At the end of the day there was time to build a proper cooking fire, then to refuel our energies for the day ahead. Dad's description of the cooking, quoted from his 1923 letter at the beginning of this chapter, should suffice. On the whole trip from Norway House to Big Trout Lake, we encountered other travelers only once. Two or three days beyond Island Lake, we ran into a Cree family returning from a berry-picking excursion. The meeting seemed casual enough at the time. It didn't come home to me until we reached Big Trout that I had been engaging in time travel.

44

chapter four

History is Now

The Indians are very friendly. They love the Church and

then, were the Big Trout people, frequently referred to as

the prayers and singing. They have not very much. They

"Bible Cree," so entirely devoted to nineteenth-century

take "debt" from the company and they go out trapping and

evangelical Anglicanism?

bring in furs to pay off the "debt". They have no way of

In retrospect, I can see a number of factors that created

keeping anything [from spoiling]. All summer they live in

this contrast. In the south, the emergence of the

teepees and some of them in winter as well. But they take

Midaywaywin,* deeply rooted in earlier beliefs and

good care of their books and each has a bag made the right

practices, provided an alternative to Christianity. In the

size to hold them and wherever they go their hymn book

north, there was almost total dependence on the fur trade

and prayer book go with them.

and an absence of disruptive influences such as alcohol, rival denominations, and exposure to irresponsible white

From my father's letter dated at York Factory, July 21, 1923

elements. These factors created a climate of acceptance for I was only fifteen when Dad took me down to

the intruding religion and made it possible for William

Neangoshing. For me, then, history was a dull subject.

Dick, a Cree catechist from Norway House, to convert

Especially Canadian history, an obligatory high school

single-handedly all the major bands of northernmost

subject that was almost exclusively about the weary

Ontario. This happened just after the turn of the century,

details of constitutional change: the Durham Report, the

and for the next two decades local catechists kept the new

Family Compact, and all that. Curiously, the Ojibway

faith alive with only rare visits from white missionaries.

bands that had been exposed to Christian missionaries for three centuries were still predominantly "pagan". Why

* An initiatic medicine society with degrees of membership

45

Daylight in the Swamp Dick, in turn, had been inspired by Richard Fairies,

rather bland taste) and muskeg fruit. They had three large

the veteran missionary at York Factory. More

sacks full of muskeg fruit, the size, shape and texture of

significantly, Dick brought with him bound copies of

raspberries but mushy and almost transparent when ripe.

Anglican prayer and hymn books, translated into Cree,

Our crew had immediately begun a vigorous dialogue

and printed in the syllables invented by James Evans, a

with the family. Engaged in the millennia-old practice of

Methodist missionary at Norway House in 1841. The

bartering, they had unwrapped their sowbelly and

beauty of the syllabic system was that it crossed the

opened up their bean sacks while the family members

barriers of dialect. Although the Big Trout people spoke a

doled out sticky handfuls of berries.

dialect more like Ojibway than Cree, they had no problem reading the translated hymns and prayers.

I didn't need to know the language to understand what was going on. Apparently, our men had the

Not until I revisited the Big Trout community forty-

advantage. They laid out one end of fat-pork and a small

three years later did I confront the depth of their

bag of beans, waiting patiently until the travellers

devotion and faith. Led by a catechist called McKay, a

reluctantly handed over the final portion of berries.

whole group had set up a new settlement at Kasabonika,

Moses handed me a handful from the small sack our men

lest their children be contaminated by government

had acquired. They were badly squashed and looked

personnel, free traders, bush pilots and so on, all of

anything but palatable. I ate them, but Dad shook his

whom broke the Sabbath routinely, swore, drank, and

head decisively after one glance. It never occurred to me

shamelessly committed adultery.

at the time that I was witnessing the world's oldest form

Approaching Big Trout in the summer of 1923, I had

of commercial transaction: barter.

no idea of what lay ahead. We had been following such a

Nor did I realize that the kind of silk-embroidered

little-travelled route that our Norway House crew didn't

sinew-sewn moosehide moccasins I was wearing (out)

know the way past Island Lake. There, on the Manitoba-

would be museum pieces a few decades later. I had

Ontario boundary we had picked up the new guide,

already gone through a dozen or more pairs of the

Abraham. Then, two days out of Island Lake, we

moccasins. Dad would bring them as gifts from the

encountered the Cree family returning from their

northerns missions and I wore them every winter. The

berrying excursion. I did not realize the historical

loss, in retrospect, is criminal.

significance of that lone encounter at the time.

We camped for the last time on an island at the west

The family had been harvesting yellowberries

end of Big Trout Lake itself. In the morning, everybody

(sometimes called "bakeapple berries" owing to their

took time to clean and tidy up for our arrival at the 46

Daylight in the Swamp mission. Dad had two or three days' growth of beard to

mission house to explore the village. With its population

remove with a straight razor. In the excitement of

of eight hundred Cree-Ojibway, it was the largest native

anticipation he nicked himself. We broke camp, then set

community and fur-trading centre in northwestern

out for the last, short leg. We followed a canal cut through

Ontario. The sound of sawing drew me to the two village

a sand bar and there, ahead, was the goal of our journey.

saw-pits. A log lay along a length of scaffold where two

The settlement was hidden behind a high bank at the

men operated a huge pit saw. One man stood in the pit

landing. The sight we beheld made it clear that this was a

and the other on the scaffold. Together they worked the

major population centre. Every man, woman, and child

saw up and down on manpower alone. I learned later that

crowded the bank beside a palisade of stout saplings. It

all the lumber for the church, mission house, post, and

was not a military structure but a ten-foot fence that

Company servants'* dwellings had been cut in this

protected the Hudson's Bay Company's vegetable garden

manner. My first visit to the Company store took me even

from marauding bears. There was no cheering, but volley

further back in history. Muzzle-loading guns, powder,

after volley of gunshots proclaimed our welcome. As we

shot, and ramrods were still on sale for the older men,

ascended the hill, I felt like royalty, shaking hands with

who still used them.

friendly-faced men, shy women, grinning little boys and

Equally anachronistic (as I was to learn at Lac Seul the

giggling little girls. We endlessly repeated "Wahchee", the

following summer) was the community's Sunday

Cree adaptation of an old British sailors' greeting from

observance. Granted, the Bishop's presence would attract

centuries earlier: "What cheer?"*

a large attendance, but it seemed the whole population of

This was Big Trout Lake. In the south the "kicker" was

more than four hundred attended en masse every Sunday.

already replacing what Dad called the "armstrong engine".

It was a sight to see whole families converging by divers

Tractors had begun hauling supplies to the gold rush at

broad paths to the church doorstep. Men in sober serge

Red Lake and the first bush planes had ventured as far

suits and tieless white shirts, the women in skirts and

north as Hudson Bay. But Big Trout had yet to see its first

head shawls of all colours, particularly red plaids,

aircraft or any other gas-powered machine.

children of all sizes tagging along, and babies smiling

The first morning of our stay, I wandered out of the *In the south the old people still used "Bozhoo", adapted from the French "Bonjour". One might almost have drawn the boundaries of English and French fur trade penetration by the distribution of the two greetings.

47

from beaded tikinagans on their mothers' backs. In the *The term "servant" applied to employees trained by the Hudson's Bay Company as carpenters, blacksmiths, clerks, and so on.

• Daylight in the Swamp • church, the standing-room-only congregation generated

example, they would frequently marry a local woman, as

a powerful odour of fish and smoke. The Big Trout

did Garrett when his English wife died. When we visited

people lived largely on fish and their clothing smelled of

Big Trout, Garrett's wife already had two babies. So

smoke. I found the redolence far from unattractive.

integrated did many veterans of either service become

When the service began, worn hymn books and prayer

that they routinely cut their furloughs short. They would

books emerged from specially sewn bags. The whole

become acutely uncomfortable in the cities, where change

congregation joined in the hymns, singing in unison. Not

was endemic and social life complex and confusing. They

merely the incomprehensible Cree words but their

may also have preferred being big frogs in little puddles

strange, droning glissandos transformed tunes familiar

instead of little frogs in a sea of urban society.

from childhood into exotic new chants. This only

Recruits for Anglican mission work came mainly from

reinforced my feeling that I was an alien visitor from

England, working class clergy eager to break the class

another time.

barrier that restricted holy orders to those of gentle birth.

For Leslie Garrett and his wife, as well as for the

Similarly, the more northerly Roman Catholic missions

missionaries we would visit later that summer, the crate

were manned almost exclusively by Oblate fathers from

of oranges Dad had brought with him were like manna

Belgium! In any event, as Anglican missionary fervour

from heaven. Fresh fruit, apart from bakeapple berries,

subsided, the "Romans" tended to move in. These, in

was something that missionaries and traders never saw.

turn, would often give way to Protestant evangelists from

The cost of transportation precluded such delicacies.

the United States.

Only vegetables from Company and mission gardens

William Dick had dealt the local shamans a decisive

supplemented the meals of manager and missionary. But

blow when he convinced the community that his three-

dietary hardships were small compared to the six-year

in-one Manitou was far more powerful than any

term of service that both men were expected to put in.

supernatural being the shamans could could call on. As

Both trader and missionary were welded to the

a replacement of sorts for their local shaman, however,

community by the six-year stint that each was expected to

the native community expected the missionary to have

serve, before either could enjoy a one-year furlough. If

some medical skills. The trader, on the other hand, had

the Company exploited the native people, it also exploited

the "most to give away." Therefore, in accord with

the post manager. The isolation, long cold winters, and

timeless tradition, he was the most prestigious person in

low pay during his six-year stint created a bond of

the community. His power to advance credit to the

common hardship with the rest of the community. For

natives, even to tap into government funds to relieve 48

Daylight in the Swamp particular cases of hardship, only reinforced his status.

to the sound of gunshots, the huge twenty-two-foot

The federal government also subsidized education on

canoes, each with a crew of five or six, swung out from

the reserves, but only after a missionary had been

the post to head for the outlet from Big Trout Lake. On

installed. Children attended school in the summer as long

this trip I was just as much a passenger as Dad. I sat on a

as their families remained at the post. But berry-picking,

fur bale facing the stern where I could study the

fishing, and hunting excursions frequently interrupted

steersman, whose style and techniques fascinated me.

even that modicum of schooling. As time went by,

His paddle, half again as long as those of his crew, was

however, old people increasingly preferred to stay in

in constant motion. With a man almost immediately in

cabins clustered along the shores adjacent to the post,

front of him, he nevertheless deftly swung his paddle

rather than endure the afflictions of old age in isolated

overhead to change sides. Steering entirely by turning his

trap-line cabins. In this way the year-round residency of

paddle blade obliquely to pull the stern right or left as the

the settlement increased and so did government services.

course demanded, he never used it as a rudder. Since that

Even against the perspectives I acquired in later years,

day, I have often practised flipping my paddle overhead,

I still regard the Big Trout community (as I witnessed it

just for the feel of it. But I never achieved that rhythm of

during that brief stay) as healthy and hard-working. A

stroke whereby the paddle would leap out of the water of

successful symbiosis of trappers and their families, of

its own accord, dropping smoothly and silently into the

trader and missionary, the community remained isolated

water on the other side to move again, obedient to its

from outside influences by the gruelling demands of

master's hand.

summer access by canoe or winter access by dogsled. All

The Fawn River, a swift stream that cut through the

of this changed, unfortunately, with the advent of

northern edge of the Canadian Shield, tumbled now and

mechanized transportation, the arrival of float planes and

again in rapids over shelves of limestone. The Fawn

the building of roads. Although it took longer for these

emptied into the Severn and the Severn emptied into

influences to reach Big Trout, they were already well

Hudson Bay at Fort Severn. The fur brigade was to

advanced further south, as I was to learn the following

rendezvous with the schooner Fort York on its return

summer at Lac Seul.

from eastern ports of call on Hudson Bay.

Soon enough—all too soon—it was time to leave the

We spent much time drifting with the current,

Big Trout settlement. Dad's itinerary had taken advantage

interrupted by only occasional carries. On portages

of the annual fur brigade that had just arrived, to

around the shallower rapids, four men carried the heavy

continue down the Fawn and Severn Rivers. One by one,

craft upside down, gunwhales resting on their shoulders.

49

• Daylight in the Swamp • On one oppresively hot day, by the time the crews had

and built like an Atlantic dory. Dragged over portages by

relayed their loads over a half-mile portage, the trail was

manpower only, they could transport horses, cattle and

slippery with sweat. But the men were all in rollicking

pianos far into the hinterland.

good humour. The trip was all downstream and they

At night we camped instead of drifting as the fur

seemed unmindful that in a few days they faced a back-

brigade normally did. To drift all night, they would lash

breaking return.

logs to the sides of their canoes to prevent them from

In earlier days the huge wooden York boats had been

straying into a backwash. That way they could sleep while

used to freight in supplies. At one portage, our head

the canoes threaded their way downstream. The entire

canoeman pointed out the former width of the portage

trip of three hundred miles normally took just three days.

road. It was still visible in the contrast between new

Because we camped, the trip would take five.

growth on either side of the trail against untouched forest

Going up the rivers was a different matter, I heard.

walls. The York boats were thirty feet long, ten feet wide,

The crews would have to "track" much of the way. One

Figure 11. Untitled study of lake

50

• Daylight in the Swamp • man would stay in the canoe to steer while the rest of the

counting the liftovers). A few days later, as the bay

crew, finding what footing they could in or out of the

approached high tide, the Fort York arrived. The coastal

water, hauled on long tump lines. For every day it took to

schooner was duly loaded in a feverish bustle and we

descend the rivers, it took a week to go back up, for this

embarked for the two-hundred-mile-plus voyage to York

was part of the fur brigade's annual route. On the return

Factory.

journey portages were a welcome relief. The ease of air

The Fort York had no passenger accommodation,

travel today makes it impossible to convey the sense of

When the vessel was loaded and the tide was right, Dad

distance as Canadians used to experience it. In retrospect,

and I boarded and followed one of the crew to our

the gruelling five hundred miles from Norway House to

sleeping quarters in the hold. We laid out our sleeping

Big Trout Lake seemed like a thousand compared to the

bags, then came up on the deck for air. Fortunately, the

three hundred miles down the Fawn and Severn Rivers.

trip to York Factory was a short one. Our two nights in

Outside of the portages, I recall few details of that journey, probably because I spent a lot of time dozing

the hold were only slightly less nightmarish than the trip that still lay ahead of us.

under a big tarpaulin as we passed mile after mile of

At York Factory we were met not only by the veteran

gravel banks topped by an endless succession of black

Anglican missionary, Archdeacon Richard Fairies, but by

spruce. I looked forward to seeing the great bay itself. All

Dad's dentures which had been repaired and sent ahead,

my young life Hudson Bay had a mystical attraction for

Fairies, a warm, unpretentious human being, was totally

me. But as we turned the last bend of the river and Fort

dedicated to his work with the northern Cree of

Severn came into view at the crest of fifty-foot clay banks,

Manitoba. He also presided over a substantial revision of

I looked in vain for the expanse of open water. Only after

E.A. Watkin's Dictionary of the Cree Language. He headed

we had landed to the sound of a fifty gun salute and

the committee of five veteran missionaries who, familiar

climbed the rickety steps up from the dock did I glimpse

with Cree dialects from northern Saskatchewan to

the prize. It was low tide. The river wound its tentacles

Labrador, laboured to enrich the earlier, 1865 edition,

over mud flats that extended almost to the horizon. But

The huge HBC warehouse, which served the whole

there beyond the flats was a gleam of open water, that

western fur trade, still stood. It was a fine old building,

fabled arm of the Atlantic Ocean, Hudson Bay.

built nearly a century earlier by ship's carpenters. Once

Looking back on that eight hundred mile trip from

again I became aware of history and the passage of time.

Norway House, I counted fifty-three notches on the

On a tour of the complex, we saw the room where R. M.

headband of my portage strap, one for each portage (not

Ballantyne, writer of boys' fiction, had slept while

51

Daylight in the Swamp working as an HBC apprentice. Years later I read with

now bears his name. Munk's expedition had been even

great sadness that the warehouse was slated for

more tragic. He, another man, and the ship's boy alone

demolition and that the Post was being abandoned.

survived scurvy while wintering in this harbour. The rest

At the time we visited York Factory, the mission

of the crew all perished.

congregation had just laid the foundation of their new

During our visit to Fort Churchill we stayed at the

church and they asked Dad to consecrate it. Since the

mission house with the Gibsons of England whom Dad

building would be of frame construction, it occurred to

had brought to the Fort on an earlier trip. Each morning

Dad that it ought to have a wooden foundation "stone".

of our stay, Mrs. Gibson brought up two cups of

He delegated me to carve out a hollow space within the

powerfully brewed tea. Much as Dad admired the British,

block where we could deposit coins of the realm, a

this alien custom was just too much. We poured our tea

newspaper, and so on. Thirty years later, when I learned

into the guest chamber pots. I presume Dad later emptied

that the building had outlived its usefulness and been

the pots in accordance with his predeliction for humble

torn down, it was traumatic to realize that I had outlived

chores. If the Gibsons did it, however, they must have

a church!

been concerned about the state of our kidneys.

The outgoing supply ship, the Nascopie, gave us a lift

For me, the highlight of our Fort Churchill sojourn

to Fort Churchill, just then becoming a deep-water port.

was the eight mile hike I took along the north side of the

A new right of way had been cut through the muskeg

river and harbour to visit the ruins of Fort Prince of

from the end of steel of the Hudson Bay Railway to the

Wales. A melancholy sight, its massive stone walls

new port. Construction workers were busy laying out a

emerged a mere six to eight feet above the surrounding

grain elevator and town site. Two arms of the last

brush. A few dismounted cannon barrels lay aging among

outcrop of Pre-Cambrian rock I was to see that summer

the weeds that graced the top of the wall. The old fort had

enclosed a fine salt-water harbour scoured by the

changed little since Samuel Hearne had meekly

outflow of the Churchill River. In the mission church just

surrendered it to the French without firing a shot. The

a few miles up the same river, Dad dedicated a bronze

French had made a fruitless attempt to destroy the fort,

plaque sent to him by the Danish government. The

including the cannons which had never fired a shot

plaque commemorated the voyage of Jens Munk, the first

except, possibly, in practice.

European to come upon the harbour. The Danish

Following the fort wall for some distance, I came upon

explorer had wintered here a mere ten years after Henry

a petroglyph I had already heard about. Carved in the

Hudson had been set adrift with his son in the bay that

wall itself, the drawing depicted a man who had been

52

• Daylight in the Swamp • hung (as the story went) for stealing a goose, a strange

Fort Churchill stood at the extreme limit of the

crime in a land where geese abounded. But perhaps this

treeline on the west side of Hudson Bay. Only a few

was a British goose, the last of its kind at the lonely

thickets of stunted spruce appeared along the north shore

outpost and carefully fattened for Christmas festivities.

of the river. On my hike to Fort Prince of Wales, I found a

I can't leave the subject of Hearne (or drawings)

single paper birch, a mere twenty inches high and a

without recounting an episode from Hearne's expedition

finger's width at the base. Sectioning the "trunk" with my

down the Coppermine River. An astute Cree fur trader by

jacknife, I counted twenty-eight rings! North of this one,

the name of Matonnabee annually led a large party of

I could see no more trees.

natives, mostly Chipewayan, to Fort Prince of Wales to

We left Fort Churchill on one of the two HBC supply

trade the winter's take of furs for the products of British

ships, ocean-going vessels that sailed out of Montreal

factories. With every visit, Matonnabee made the same

every year to service communities in the bay and the

strange request of Hearne. He assumed, from all the

eastern Arctic. Dad had already travelled on both ships,

magical trade goods that Hearne dispensed, that the

bringing out the Gibsons to Fort Churchill in 1925 on the

post's governor had extraordinary supernatural powers.

Nascopie. In succeeding years he had established two new

Matonnabee had an enemy whom he wanted to get rid

missions to the Innu. He ordained Don Marsh, installing

of. Would Hearne, as a personal favour, use a modicum of

him at Eskimo Point and in 1929 or (30 brought Bill

his personal power to destroy the man? On each of

James to Baker Lake.

Matonnabee's visits, year after year, Hearne protested that

It is difficult to imagine a more Godforsaken site for a

he had no such power. Until he wearied of saying no and

community than the one that confronted us as the ship

finally agreed. Selecting a sheet of parchment, he created

anchored well off the shore of Eskimo Point. The ship's

a drawing. First he drew a tree trunk, inscribed an eye in

lighter began to relay supplies to the post and mission.

it, then drew a hand sticking out from the left side. Then

Marsh, who would later become Bishop of the Arctic, had

he drew a picture of himself shoving a bayonet blade

built a neat little church and mission house. The tiny

(then a popular trade item) into the chest of another

group of buildings lined the crest of a gravel and boulder

man, who was falling.

ridge that stretched monotonously eastward into the

The following spring, Matonnabee came back to

point and westward to infinity. The landscape was not

Hearne beaming with gratitude. The intended victim,

merely treeless, it had no grass of any description and

having merely heard of the magic drawing, stopped

even the lichens could scarcely find a haven.

eating and died of pure fear within a week! 53

The people were known as the Caribou Eskimo,

• Daylight in the Swamp • Mowat's "People of the Deer." They followed and hunted

sacks laid side by side across the beam of the hold

the migrating herds of caribou throughout the year,

forming a "bed" that was eight feet long and some thirty

supplementing their diet with freshwater fish. In the

inches wide. Over this luxurious mattress Dad and I

summer they lived in tents of caribou hide supported by

arranged our two bedrolls. We crawled in between them

driftwood. They still wore the (now outmoded) sealskin

and tried to find a soft spot that would encourage sleep.

and caribou clothing. Women kept their babies in a

Dad took the inside. This left me just enough room, by

capacious hood that hung from their shoulders. They

crowding him a bit, to balance on the edge of the sacks

breast-fed their children up to the age of three or four.

next to the bilge. A few feet forward of us the motor

Everyone wore calf-length boots known locally as

chugged away, spewing a cloud of oil and gas fumes. The

"mukluks", a borrowed word that identified a peculiar

only benefit conferred by the motor, apart from

combination of tanned moosehide moccasins and duffle

transporting us, was warmth.

leggings. I was still wearing my Ojibway moccasins when

I must have slept in spite of everything for the next

I arrived at Eskimo Point. But I soon acquired the

thing I knew the motor had fallen silent, leaving only the

waterproof sealskin boots that were essential to any

sound of water sloshing back and forth in the bilge.

excursion inland, where the permafrost supported

Evidently we had anchored somewhere, the tide was

shallow pools everywhere. Incidentally, in the English of

going out and the ship rocked on its keel.

the Arctic, the word "husky" (or "Esky") meant Eskimo. A

Somehow, my sleeping space had diminished. I had to

"husky dog", later shortened to "husky," continued to

put my hand down on the bottom in order to avoid

mean an Eskimo dog.

falling off the sacks altogether. I stayed like this for some

We left Eskimo Point on September 3 in a mild

time, my hand in the cold, greasy, eternally sloshing bilge.

snowstorm for the return journey to Fort Churchill. We

Gradually, too gradually, the tide turned, the rocking

travelled in an Eskimo-owned Peterhead launch powered

subsided and we seemed to be afloat again. The motor

by an ancient gasoline motor. Crewed by the skipper and

started and we were moving. I must have gone to sleep

his wife, and carrying four passengers, she was some

with my hand still in the bilge for, when I awoke, I

thirty feet long with a cabin, a tiny galley aft, and a

retained my beachhead on the coal sacks. Looking back

capacious hold. Protocol demanded that the skipper and

on all the places I've ever slept, I'd have to say that the

his wife occupy the cabin, and that the other passengers

hold of that launch was incomparably the worst.

stay on deck while the bishop and his son used a sort of

I never learned whether Dad slept or not.

sleeping platform below deck. It consisted of a row of coal

Characteristically, he uttered no complaint. For a man

54

• Daylight in the Swamp • who'd had a gall bladder operation that very spring, he

deck of the boat and were off. One of the men paddled

stood up remarkably well to every ruggedness.

stern, the other perched on the thwart behind me, his

The next day brought an unexpected reward. Just as

.303 at the ready. A series of huge boulders obscured the

we reached the mouth of Little Seal River, halfway to

mouth of the river, and concealed our approach from a

Churchill, our skipper announced that the faltering

herd of fresh water seals sunning themselves beyond. We

motor had developed a cracked cylinder. It seemed like a

moved cautiously between the boulders but within

suspicious coincidence as we anchored conveniently close

seconds the seals were all splashing into the water and we

to a stony beach. The two deck passengers disappeared

paddled off in hot pursuit. A head that was uncannily like

ashore. An hour or two later, I followed them for my first a man's emerged suddenly from the water just in front of look at the land. I found myself on a flat, gravelly plain sprinkled everywhere by shallow, icy pools of all shapes and sizes,

us and, at the same instant, the gun went off over my head. A red splash appeared in the centre of the seal's head and it sank below the surface.

They all had the same depth, about a foot and a half, the

That's when I learned what a harpoon is for. Dead sea

depth of the unthawed permafrost. Half an hour inland I

mammals sink and this one was doing just that. A minute

spied a gravel ridge, and made for it to get a view of the

later we found the body on the river bed under six feet of

land beyond. At the crest was a little stone structure, a

fast, clear water. But the men made no attempt to get it.

wall of sorts. I had just drawn level with the top when a

Instead, the hunter reached for a small canvas bag and

wild-looking human head appeared. My heart hammered

withdrew a stiff coil of wire and a file. In a minute he had

until I recognized one of our fellow passengers, telescope filed a sharp point on one end of the wire. In another in hand. He had been scanning the horizon for caribou

minute he had lashed the wire to the end of the paddle and

and offered me a look at one through his telescope. I

had bent the sharp end of the wire into a hook. It took us

couldn't be sure whether it was an animal or a white

half an hour to re-locate the dead seal and not a little skill

boulder that I saw. Since neither of us had a word in the

to keep the canoe in place while the hunter hooked the

other's language, I never found out.

animal. Brought to the surface, the seal was too heavy to lift

Next morning, our skipper was still wrestling with the

into the canoe, so we towed it to the shore, dragged it out

engine, so there was still time to spend at our anchorage,

of the water, and cut it into three bloody chunks. These we

When he explained that the men wanted to hunt seal and

could lift into the canoe. The next morning I had my first

needed someone to paddle bow, I jumped at the chance,

taste of seal liver, fishy but good.

We launched the seventeen-foot freight canoe from the

55

By noon the engine was functioning and we were on

• Daylight in the Swamp • our way again. When we arrived at Churchill, we learned

muskeg. We went up, circling and searching for the line,

that we had just missed the last outbound supply boat,

but the weather was clouding over. The pilot decided to

For ten days we strolled the beach or moped under

land on one of the hundreds of small shallow lakes that

canvas, increasingly convinced that we would have to

splattered the sub-Arctic landscape. I remember as if it

wait for freeze-up and go out by dogsled. All the while I

were only yesterday the sensations of landing. First the

thought about the girl I left behind me (whoever it was),

silence when he cut the motor, the wind singing in the

She too, would watch the days of our reunion dwindle,

struts. Then the sensation of drifting down like a falling

There was less and less time between my return to

leaf, as the pilot tilted the plane first to port, then to

Kenora and my departure for a second undergraduate

starboard, sideslipping right and left (a practice now

term in Toronto.

forbidden by the Ministry of Transport) to cut altitude

Salvation came from the sky, logically enough for a

rapidly. The earth levelled off at the treetops. The water

Bishop's party. A Fairchild cabin monoplane on floats

gleamed below the pontoons just before the splash and

buzzed into the Fort Churchill harbour. I will never

sudden drag as we slowed to a stop, just before hitting

forget the letters on the aircraft's side, G-CARH, nor the

the shore.

year, 1928. That year, as I would later learn, a company

As darkness gathered neither Dad nor the pilot

called Northern Aerial Mineral Exploration had

seemed perturbed. It had been Dad's first flight and

chartered several aircraft and sent them prospecting for

FLYIN bishop" with a Catholic monseigneur. In any

gold as far north as Rankin Inlet.

flying

mine too, obviously. Later, he would share the title "the

The pilot was cast in the mould of men like "Punch"

event, / was perturbed. I nibbled at my share of a tin of

Dickins, the consummate bush pilot. A lean man with a

sardines and a few hard tack biscuits. I could picture the

birdlike head, he seemed the epitome of alertness,

morrow: flying desperately southward until the gas ran

Flying alone and empty, he agreed to give us a lift down

out, coming down on another uncharted pond, a needle

to the end of steel, where the Hudson Bay Rail line

in a haystack, ears straining for the sound of a search

construction had currently halted. We would refuel at

plane, no radio communication, getting hungrier and

Deer Lake, the halfway point. Here the company

hungrier, trying to snare a few rabbits, the first snowfall,

maintained a small base with a shack and a pile of

watching the pilot die, then my father,

gasoline drums.

Next morning the sky held a low overcast that kept

Unfortunately, our pilot lost sight of the thin sliver

us prisoner. By noon the clouds began to break up,

that marked the railway right-of-way through the

however, and within an hour we were on our way again. 56

• Daylight in the Swamp • We sighted the HER right-of-way almost immediately,

prank. We landed in due course at the end of steel and

We followed it to the little air base at Deer Lake.

travelled by open gas car on the rails to Pikwitonei at

More than thirty years were to pass before I would ride in an airplane again. The Fairchild was the precursor of those two northern workhorses, the Beaver and the Otter. With floats in the summer and skis in the winter, these bush planes evolved, so to speak, in the Canadian Shield terrain. Because water (or ice) was ubiquitous, a dead-stick landing was possible everywhere within a mile or two. Over the last quarter century I've covered thousands of miles in such aircraft with nary a scare. We had just enough gas, as it turned out, to reach the Deer Lake base. That night, sleeping in the tiny warehouse, Dad and I awakened from time to time to the sounds of hilarious carousing by the pilot and some of the people who worked at the base. They whooped it up in the shack right next door to us. The following morning, as we circled to cruising altitude, the aircraft began to behave strangely. Whether the pilot did this as a farewell gesture to the personnel below or in a mischievous attempt to shake my father's imperturbability, I never found out. The nose of the plane tilted sharply down and the earth began to rise. Then it suddenly fell away only to twist into appearance again as the plane resumed its normal flight. I later learned to call this an Immelman turn. Dad remained completely calm throughout the performance. I too, tried to conceal my feelings, lest the pilot was pulling a

57

Mile 124, where we boarded the train for the comforts (and dull routines) of civilization,

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chapter five

On the Edge of Another World

One June my father took me sixty miles down the Lake

Africa. However, when I learned how much time and

[of the Woods] to Neangoshing for the treaty gathering

money it took to become a doctor, I reduced my

where the drums beat a more authentic note. As I wandered

ambitions from the African jungle to the Canadian bush.

through the big encampment, watching and listening, I only

I would become a missionary to the Ojibway. In deciding

understood that I was on the edge of another world—

this, I was swayed by my growing fascination with bush

surrounded by strangers whose life fitted this wild, beautiful

travel and by romantic ideas of wanting to "help" the

land in a way that was closed to me.

native people. That brief glimpse of the Lake of the

They Shared to Survive, 1976

Woods Ojibway at Neangoshing doubled my interest. I even wished I could become an "Indian".

I was fifteen and had just completed my third year of

But native life had its dark side, from the drunks who

high school when I made the trip to Neangoshing. Since

loafed on Kenora streets to a strange event written

my Prince Albert days I had been fired by accounts of the

indelibly on my memory of those days. One evening my

African explorations of Stanley and of Livingstone.

chum Smitty and I were returning home by canoe at

Although visions of a career as an artist were gathering in

dusk. We passed a fishing boat that was clearly in trouble,

the back of my mind, the family missionary tradition

and we paddled over to investigate. The boat was hung up

remained foremost. I wanted to be a medical missionary

on a bedrock reef. Its sole occupant, a middle-aged

like Dr. Westgate, who had visited Prince Albert in 1919.

Ojibway, thrust his head through the broken windshield

From the pulpit of St. Alban's he had described his work

and shouted obscenities at us. Blood trickled down his

and sufferings in what was then German Southwest

neck from head and face wounds. We backed off, not 59

• Daylight in the Swamp • knowing what to do. When we spied an approaching

to wonder whether the church was the place for me when

launch, we stopped it to describe what we had seen.

Dad, as Bishop, offered me a summer job as student-in-

Because it was getting dark, we continued home, without

charge at the Lac Seul Mission. I jumped at the chance,

ever learning what happened after that.

not only because it would give me a taste of missionary

Besides Smitty, I had another chum, a native boy by

work, but because I had heard so much about Lac Seul as

the name of Cliff Sanderson. His father, the Reverend

a wilderness paradise. That was how it came about that I

Canon Maurice Sanderson, was a full-blooded Cree,

served two, long halcyon summers in the very heart of

raised on a Salteaux reservation in southern Manitoba.

"God's country," in 1929 and 1930. Canon Sanderson,

Canon Sanderson was a veteran churchman, with charge

moreover, would be my supervisor.

over all the missionary work in the southern part of the

Before it was flooded for a hydro dam in 1931, Lac

Diocese of Keewatin. Out rabbit hunting with Cliff one

Seul had been a crescent-shaped enlargement of the

fall, I was shocked to hear him refer to natives as "they".

English River, some one hundred and twenty miles long

In his own mind, he seemed to have crossed the fence

but rarely more than a mile across. The water flowed

that divided his ancestral culture from that of the

imperceptibly west, then northwest, cascaded over Ear

European settlers. This in spite of his broad cheekbones,

Falls, and ultimately joined the Winnipeg River. Halfway

black hair, and strong, dark face that I frankly envied,

along the southern shore a band of Ojibway had their

There could be even less doubt about his father's ancestry,

summer camp on a site they had originally chosen in

I had often heard Maurice Sanderson preach in English in

1873 (Treaty Number 3) as a reservation in lieu of their

the Kenora church but the first speech I heard him give in

land claims. The Hudson's Bay Company had not been

Ojibway opened a new world of oratory for me. It was at

slow to establish a fur post on the opposite shore and, by

the Treaty Assembly at Frenchman's Head in 1930, which

the early 1900s, the Anglicans had set up a thriving

I will come to in a moment.

mission on the same site. Although the Lac Seul Ojibway

In the fall of 1928, after the journey to Big Trout with

had signed their treaty with the new Canadian

Dad, I returned to Wycliffe College at the University of

government much earlier than other bands, such as the

Toronto for my second year in residence. Continuing the

one at Big Trout Lake, they had been almost as isolated up

missionary tradition of my father and eldest brother, I

to the point of my arrival.

planned to continue my BA program, then to follow up

By sheer happenstance I was to spend two long

with the courses offered at Wycliffe that would qualify me

summers at the right historical moment to witness events

for ordination in the church. But I was already beginning

that would change the Lac Seul people forever. History is 60

• Daylight in the Swamp • now. The Canadian Pacific Railway, completed in 1885,

pruning had cleared their lower trunks of branches. The

passed too far to the south of Lac Seul to have much

lusty foliage of the pines plus the thick carpet of needles

impact on the community. But in the first decade of the

they dropped had completely eliminated undergrowth to

new century, the Canadian Northern Railway (later

offer clear glades in all directions. Apart from a marginal

incorporated into the CNR) gave direct access to Lac Seul

farm a few miles to the east, the only buildings on the

waters at a stop called Hudson. In the mid-1920s gold was

shore were the mission and the post. Further back from

discovered at Red Lake, northwest of Lac Seul. The rush

the shore, three log houses that would soon be

of men and materials into Hudson, then off by boat to

demolished presently housed a carpenter, a handyman, a

Red Lake, set in motion profound changes that took place

labourer and their families, all from the reserve. Here was

under my very nose during the two summers of my

a living symbol of decline and a reminder that history is

tenure. For example, the gold rush created many jobs.

now. At one time, the Lac Seul post had been the most

Young men from the reserves worked seasonally on

active and lucrative in the whole region. Now the

survey crews, construction projects, prospecting parties.

Hudson's Bay Company was in the process of transferring

They worked as guides, rodmen, and general labourers. At

its investment from a dying fur trade to a thriving retail

the same time, the rush of "progress" demanded a hydro

business in Hudson.

dam at Ear Falls, the outlet of Lac Seul. The dam alone

The boat dropped me at the dock by the post: two

would bring profound changes to the geography of the

sturdily-built squared-log buildings, a warehouse and a

lake and the lifestyle of its aboriginal inhabitants. In the

store. There I was met by an ageing example of the

midst of all of this historical change, I would be a student

English Gentleman. He had white hair, faded blue eyes,

missionary. I was to hold services at Lac Seul Post and at

and no hat. He was immaculately dressed in an old

Hudson on alternate Sundays.

hunting jacket with trousers to match. Mr. Aldous. I

So it was that early in the summer of 1929 the

never did learn his first name and I would never have

passenger boat from Hudson to Red Lake dropped me at

dared use it if I had known it. A veteran of the Company,

Lac Seul Post. Situated on a flat, sandy point, the post

with years of experience in the fur trade, he spoke fluent

featured a beach that extended nearly a mile eastward,

Ojibway and had two apprentices in training, a relative

ending at a rocky point where the mission church stood.

luxury. (The manager at Big Trout, for example, had only

The mission house occupied a rise above the beach,

one). One of the apprentices already spoke good Ojibway,

beside the church, and backed by a stand of white pine,

the other had newly arrived from Aberdeen, Scotland, the

the most beautiful I have ever seen anywhere. Natural

apparent source of most HBC managers and apprentices.

61

• Daylight in the Swamp • Mr. Aldous invited me to his house for tea where I met

and warehouse. The latter was piled and hung with the

his only other employee besides the apprentices, an

cured pelts of every fur-bearing animal that had any

Englishwoman who kept his house. Hardly younger than

market value. I remember particularly some wolf skins,

Aldous, she had dark hair and always called her employer

including a beautiful black one with luxuriant fur. A

"Mr. Aldous". The two were most hospitable and

pleasant, musky odour filled the air. The rest of the

extended a standing invitation to afternoon tea in the

warehouse was filled with merchandise, of course, from

manager's residence. Their old country politeness, along

fishing gear to printed cotton to canned fruit.

with certain other features, gave the post an air of unreality.

Next, Aldous took me to the old mission house along a ten-minute walk through those magnificent pine glades.

For example, when Aldous first came to Canada, he

The path was well trodden. I was soon to learn that I

had brought with him an ancient set of golf clubs. On

could follow it with my feet on the darkest night. The

arriving at Lac Seul, he had wasted no time in laying out a

mission house had the same general design as the two-

golf course on the sandy, weed-grown flats. The course

storeyed post manager's residence. Built of hand-hewn

had three holes which were not at all easy to locate in the

beams and faced over with whipsawed planks, it was cool

tall, scanty grasses. He would play nine holes by going

and roomy within, even on the hottest summer days. It

around the course three times. An eighteen-hole game

had four bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen, a hallway, and a

was more or less out of the question because of the time

large front room downstairs. The front door gave onto a

it took to locate stray golf balls. I was to serve a double

long, open, roofed veranda that faced west in the

apprenticeship that summer: as a student lay minister and

direction of the post.

as a golfer. In the latter role I discovered a certain facility

The front room was the site of winter services for the

for whacking the ball off into the blue. Consequently, we

few native people who remained at the Lac Seul

spent more time looking for my strays than anyone else's.

community after most had departed for their family trap

I was destined never to become a star player, however.

lines miles away in the bush. The house itself provided

Aldous departed that fall for a new posting to Osnaburgh

ample room for the incumbent missionary, his wife and

House*, clubs and all.

family. In fact, Maurice Sanderson had been the last full-

After tea, Mr. Aldous took me through the post store

time missionary. His wife and children had spent winters

*The Hudson's Bay Company post on Lake St Joseph at the head of the Albany River.

62

• Daylight in the Swamp • in Kenora so that his four sons and one daughter could

guiding, fishing, freighting, and trapping. I would get to

get an adequate education. But the family would return in

know Lester later and visit him a few times to be

the summers, using the mission house as a kind of resort.

entertained by his Whiskey Jack (Ousikaychak) stories.

The fact that I was the first summer student

(Again, how I wish I had written them down!)

incumbent illustrated the impact the gold rush was

Lester also kept kept horses. I had no idea at the time,

having on the Lac Seul community. Most of the younger

and it took me a while to realize, that Lester permitted

trappers found they could earn more as summer guides

them to wander where they would, when they would.

for prospectors, so many young families moved to where

One night not long after I moved in, I awoke to the sound

the action was, in Hudson or at Gold Pines at the west

of alarmingly heavy footsteps on the mission house

end of the lake. They moved as far as Red Lake where a

veranda. It sounded like really big men! Investigating, I

shortage of labour had developed following discoveries

was shocked (and relieved) to see Lester's horses. They

that were even more promising than the original Howey

had stopped to pay a courtesy call on their way to the

Development.

post garden where they hoped to dine on Mr. Aldous's

I got used to living in the mission house, cooking my

cabbage and lettuce.

own meals and doing my own laundry on an ancient hand-

Shortly after I arrived, I found the mission canoe. My

operated machine. I chopped my own wood for the kitchen

delight at this discovery, an almost new, canvas-covered,

stove, swept the house at infrequent intervals, and prepared

fifteen-foot chestnut canoe, needs no explanation. Often,

sermons for the two services that I gave in Hudson every

when no other duties pressed me, I would take the

other Sunday. (How I wish I'd hung onto a few of those

chestnut out on the lake. It still gives me a moment of

sermons!) I still found time to read most of the dog-eared

heartache to recall the view of the post from the lake, its

books left behind by the Sandersons and even to turn my

whitewashed walls and red roofs against that magnificent

hand to writing verse. There was swimming, of course, and

stand of white pine. I remember most vividly the scene

failing all else, I could always stroll over to the Post to find

one hot, calm day in early August when I had paddled up

someone for a few holes of golf.

the lake some fifteen miles, then looked back. A heat

I lived alone in the old mission house. Apart from

mirage suspended the miniature post buildings in mid-

Aldous and the HBC employees, my only other

air. Often from such distances I had seen the post

neighbour lived a mile down the shore to the east. Lester

buildings hovering just above the horizon in a heat

Vincent, of mixed ancestry, had lost an arm in World

mirage. But now the image was accompanied by its

War I and now supplemented his veteran's pension by

double, hanging upside down below it!

63

• Daylight in the Swamp • I had the perfect excuse for longer trips. In fact, I

point for Ear Falls, and above all, the Red Lake mining

would routinely take a forty mile trip by canoe to Hudson

settlement. I would have to maintain the bimonthly

and back. It was just over twenty miles by water and

commitment in Hudson, but in the intervening

three portages to Hudson. Travelling light, I made

two weeks I was as free as a bird.

the trip in about seven hours. A few diesel-

I also made a point of paddling across the

powered freight and passenger boats plied the

lake every week to the Lac Seul Ojibway village, a

lake, passing the mission and trading

sort of goodwill visit. I cannot properly call them

post once or twice a day. The all-

parishioners because many of them still kept to

water route they were forced to*

the aboriginal religion and oral traditions. My

follow to Hudson was nearl/

visit always began, as I tied up my canoe and

three times as long as the

climbed the bank, with a barrage of snarls,

one I followed.

growls and fierce barks from the sleigh

I found another use for

dogs. Although the people kept them

the canoe when the blueberry

tied, how was I to know when the

season opened in mid-July,

leash would finally pull

my Lac Seul

^ ^^"^WSLII^ 4 t

congregation vanishec

waykal

and

like snow in the spring.

kept a discreet distance

Everyone was off berry-picking. I could

from me, not wishing to offend

have continued holding my Sunday

tribal conservatives. At the same time, those

services at Lac Seul with two or three old

who kept to the old ways understood very well

people and a grandchild or two from

that the Church condemned all vestiges of

across the lake. What a lift it gave me to

"paganism". I ended by being acutely

realize that to pursue my duties

uncomfortable all round on such visits. Perhaps

conscientiously, I should go where the

the only good to come from them for me was

people went! The idea opened up the

the photograph I took one day of an aged

prospect of a whole series of canoe

shaman named Go-to-pat. I persuaded him

trips to a dozen camps, paddling solo to

F i g u r e 1 2, U n t i t l e d

all of them, including Gold Pines, the freight transfer

to pose for my vest-pocket camera and, a

few years later, I made a lino-block image from the photo.

64

• Daylight in the Swamp • The mission canoe added the element of freedom to

Edwards, a doctor from Kenora, his assistant, a clerk, and

my summers at Lac Seul. At any time I had no duties, I

an RCMP constable. Canon Sanderson was also there,

might take it out for a paddle, not the long trips to

representing the Church.

Hudson or to the berry-pickers' camps, but little jaunts

On Sunday morning Sanderson addressed the

away from the mission and post. I would even take the

assembled bands and I experienced for the first time the

canoe out after dark. If you have ever paddled at night

full flavour of his oratory. In that outdoor setting, the

down a still channel that echoes with the flutes of loons,

people sitting on the ground, it took little imagination to

your paddle dipping and thrusting the craft with

be transported back in time and to feel again, as I had at

unconscious ease, the quiet drip of the paddle as it lifts

Neangoshing, that I was on the edge of another world.

from the water and slips quietly in for the next stroke,

His mastery of the mother tongue, the sonorous dignity

you'll know what I was after.

of his voice, the flashing eyes, eloquent gestures, musical

Just east of Hudson lay the town of Sioux Lookout.

cadences, and dramatic pauses left me in no doubt about

Although a river connected this town of a few thousand

the power of the man. It was reflected in the rapt silence

to the Lac Seul waterway, a falls blocked easy access. Later,

of that audience. I, as an outsider, understood but little of

as bush airlines came into their own, Sioux Lookout

his speech. I sensed how wide and deep was the cultural

would become the jumping-off point for the whole

gap that separated me from the native people. Only

Patricia District. But for now, Hudson was the focus of

Sanderson could span it.

gold rush transportation. A sawmill in Hudson that

The rest of the treaty gathering, concerning the

provided lumber for the Red Lake development brings

annual payment of timber duties and a medical

me to the treaty gathering.

checkup, amounted to a descent from the sublime.

Logs for the mill were cut on nearby reservation lands

Typical Indian Affairs agents were World War I veterans

on the basis of a lease arranged between the Lac Seul

and Captain Edwards was no exception. He had also

Ojibway and the federal government. Fees payable on the

been Boy Scout Commissioner for the Kenora District

lease went through the Indian Affairs branch and were

and I knew him well from that time. As "troop leader" I

paid at the annual treaty gatherings. I can't recall the 1929

had to run the Kenora troop during our scoutmaster's

gathering but I was present as a fascinated witness in

frequent alcoholic lapses.

1930 when several Ojibway bands camped for a few days at Frenchman's Head. The treaty party consisted of the Indian agent Captain 65

Edwards and his clerk had set up a large wall tent with the Canadian ensign waving more or less proudly in the breeze outside. The men of the bands lined up to receive

• Daylight in the Swamp • their payments, five dollars for every member of their

George reaches into the only other visible carton and

families. Those from the local band received an additional

takes out a bottle of green liquid and hands it to the

timber fee of $7.50. A pregnant woman added a touch of

woman.

drama to the camp. Would her baby arrive in time to qualify for another head payment? Meanwhile, another lineup at the doctor's tent would have been comical if it weren't so medically monstrous, The medical assistant, a man named George, stood beside a huge supply of cough syrup. Tuberculosis, then

"Give your little one a teaspoonful whenever it cries, Next!" But the woman hesitates, says something in a low voice. "George. Give her a bottle of the cough medicine, too."

endemic, was the feared killer. It took the largest toll on

Everyone who came to the medical tent came away

infants, but even young adults came down with it. The

with something. Some grinned, other wore impassive

doctor examined each patient in turn, listening intently to

faces. I saw one man stop a few yards from the tent,

their rudimentary English through the coughing noises

uncork his bottle and take a hearty swig. He passed the

that came from the line. The following scene was typical:

bottle to a friend who gulped down the balance, then

A big man stands at the head of the line, the doctor looks up questioningly. The man thumps his chest with vigour, managing just two words of English.

both went off, giggling. No doubt the syrup had an alcoholic content. This reminds me of a problem that would occur during the

"Hurt. Much hurt".

priestly dispensation of wine during Holy Communion at

"Okay. Give him some cough medicine, George".

mission services. All too frequently, communicants would

George reaches into the carton and pulls out a bottle

take the communion goblet in their hands and drain the

of yellow fluid. He hands it to the patient. The doctor

contents with one gulp. Priests became accustomed to

holds up three fingers and points to the sun.

watering the wine and filling only the bottom of the

"Three times a day".

goblet. But this meant more frequent consecrations of the

The big man grins, shoves the bottle in his pants pocket

wine, more frequent pretastings by the priest and,

and makes way for the next patient. She is a thin, weary-

undoubtedly, some cumulative effect on his ability to

looking woman holding a baby. Obviously both are sick,

conduct a sober service. It strikes me now that the Roman

The baby cries feebly. The doctor stands up to look closely

Catholic practice of giving out only wafers and sipping

at the baby, then puts a stethoscope to its chest.

only symbolically makes a lot of sense.

"Give her a bottle of the infant remedy, George."

In the late 1920s and early 1930s, prohibition was in

66

• Daylight in the Swamp • full force. The only legal sources of alcohol were

That afternoon, Johnny Shortback, a big man over six

pharmaceutical preparations and communion wine,

feet tall and broad in proportion, came into the Hudson's

Bootleggers had easy access to Hudson, but there was no

Bay store while I was buying an item or two. Only a few

way they could set up business at Lac Seul. Camping

weeks earlier I had seen a snapshot of him loaded with

anywhere in the vicinity of the reserve would have made

eight ninety-eight-pound bags of flour. He had carried

them far too conspicuous. In fact, although drunks were

the load over a three mile portage without stopping. Now,

common enough in Hudson, I never encountered any

he was not merely under the influence, as they say, but

native person, on or off the reservation, drunk outside

drunk. And angry!

the town.

Besides the store clerk I was the only object on which

I'm still haunted by the memory of a visit to Hudson

he could vent his wrath. He greeted me with a diatribe

that coincided with the arrival of the last fur brigade to

against my race in general and advanced in a menacing

arrive by canoe from Osnaburgh House, a post some sixty

fashion. This prompted me to retreat at the same rate

miles to the northeast.

until I felt the store counter at my back. Fixing my eyes

They came in a flotilla of seventeen-foot freight canoes

firmly on his, I hoisted myself up on the counter thereby

loaded with bales of fur that would be shipped first to

becoming a head taller and overcoming his height

Montreal by rail, then to England by sea for the London

advantage. The abuse now reached a peak but no violence

fur auctions. The brigade arrived shortly after I did one

followed. Woods, the store manager, came in at this point.

Saturday morning, twenty men or more. The Hudson's

After Shortback walked out, I asked Woods why the

Bay clerk paid them all off and they disappeared.

Mounties hadn't arrested the bootlegger. After all, this

As darkness fell that evening, they reappeared,

was prohibition and it was illegal to sell liquor anywhere.

Evidently, they had visited the bootlegger's shack which,

Woods explained that no arrests could be made until

as everyone knew, lay just over the hill. By the next

someone laid charges. As local magistrate he had all the

morning the railroad right of way was littered with men

requisite legal forms. Lacking any direct evidence, he had

who had passed out overnight. Mr. Woods, the Hudson

nothing to charge the bootlegger with. So, why didn't I

HBC manager, was bitter about the money which the

charge Johnny Shortback? That way, the Mounties would

bootlegger had diverted from his store. But he could (or

have somewhere to start. I declined. A few weeks later I

would) do little about it. I found myself in a state of

learned that Johnny was in jail in Kenora. The bootlegger

moral outrage. Where were the mounties? Why didn't

had vanished as soon as the Mounties showed up in

somebody do something?

Hudson. So much for my first (and last) attempt to deal

67

• Daylight in the Swamp • with the "Indian liquor problem". It would be many years

her to 'fuck off1.' Finally, he went over to the newly arrived

before I would understand that alcohol was exactly the

young missionary's tent for company, and to escape the

wrong drink to mix with a society that had developed its

friendly female.

emotional discipline based on survival values such as

The woman followed him in and sat down. So Bert

sharing. Alcohol had a disastrous effect on these controls.

explained her needs to the young missionary on whom

As a representative of the Church, I had to discourage

she was now casting longing eyes. The missionary was

drinking wherever I found it, even when it meant going

now so upset that he got down on his knees and prayed

against my own humanity. One afternoon I was

the Lord to be delivered from temptation! She finally left."

conducting an open air service over at Frenchman's Head

Almost from the day of my arrival at Lac Seul I began

when the women suddenly melted into the bush with

work on an Ojibway dictionary, determined to learn the

their children. I turned (attired in surplice and cassock)

language. In a few weeks I began to include words and

to face a man, ugly drunk, emerging from a nearby tent.

phrases in the native language with English sentences that

With all the aplomb of an empire-builder facing the

I made meticulously direct and simple for my

threat of "lesser breeds without the law" (to quote

congregation. Whenever my supervisor, Canon

Kipling), I stared him down. But it sickens me now to

Sanderson, visited, he tutored me in reading the Ojibway

recall how readily I could assume the moral arrogance of

prayers and service from printed phonetics based on the

my race.

system devised by the missionary James Evans a century

On the other hand, there were problems of a different

earlier. Although it applied equally to all native tongues,

sort that churchmen sometimes had to face. I was

including Cree and Ojibway, it would be another decade

thankful never to be exposed to the trial of a certain

before the Lac Seul people would begin to use it.

young missionary in the Manitoba hinterland. The

Meanwhile, the Big Trout community had long been

incident was described for me by Bert, a veteran

familiar with the system.

northerner reminiscing about his days as a young

As I mentioned previously, there was a major religious

Hudson's Bay employee sent to buy fur from a small,

difference between the two communities. While the Trout

isolated band. To quote from my diary of the time:

Lake community had totally converted to Christianity,

"The women of the band had watched his arrival with

the Lac Seul band remained "pagan" in official Church

a lively interest: 'Which of us will he choose to sleep

terminology. Further south again, the Lake of the Woods

with?' Bert put up a tent and one of the younger women

people still practised traditional rituals, from healing rites

kept putting her head in the tent while Bert kept yelling at

to destructive sorcery, in spite of two centuries' exposure

68

• Daylight in the Swamp • to missionary endeavours. As I pointed out in The Sacred

expected to eat the flesh of a white dog? Fears and

Scrolls of the Southern Ojibway, it was the Midaywaywin

objections multiplied to the point of paralysis. I could not

Society, with its four degrees of initiation, that

know that this was to be the last such ceremony.

encouraged these practices and it was the Midaywaywin society that preserved Ojibway identity.

Things were changing fast for the Lac Seul and other Ojibway bands. Soon, the Midaywaywin would be largely

The Midaywaywin, misnamed the "Grand Medicine

abandoning their practices, and giving away or throwing

Society" developed along the south shore of Lake

out priceless ritual objects. I was to come by a few of

Superior in the early 1700s. It came to maturity in the

them in later life when I had developed a professional

village of Leech Lake in northern Minnesota, then spread

interest in the subject of Midaywaywin scrolls*. Strangely

far and wide from there into adjacent Canada. In the

enough, it was a young member of my Lac Seul

process, it lost much of its classical form and took on new

congregation, a lad by the name of Dean Starrat, who

rituals and practices that derived from the visionary life

developed a small collection of his own. Forty years later,

of local practitioners. New Miday centres emerged in

I met him again in Hudson where he ran a small but

Manitoba and Northwestern Ontario and their annual

prosperous local air service. I was astounded to learn that

initiation ceremonies attracted bands from afar. Usually

he had a Miday master scroll in his collection. But

held in June, the two largest ceremonies were held at

Starrat's find was nothing compared to the bonanza

Berens River and Lac Seul. These ceremonies culminated

reaped by Irving Hallowell, an ethnologist funded by the

in the Feast of the White Dog.

Heye Foundation in New York.

I'll never cease regretting that I did not attend the

In 1930, when the dam at Ear's Falls was completed,

ceremonies. Night after night during that first June at Lac

Lac Seul's outlet was closed off and lake levels rose. The

Seul I went to sleep to the sound of drumming from the

subsequent flooding wiped out the village site and

reserve. In those days I knew nothing of the

destroyed the rice beds that had provided a substantial

Midaywaywin. Moreover, I represented the Church and

part of the Lac Seul band's food supply. Pressure on the

the Church rejected all native religion. Would they not

Ojibway

reject me? I knew only the name of the feast. Would I be

"development" throughout northwest Ontario and

people

from

white

settlement

and

^Scrolls made from birchbark panels sewn together with cedar roots and covered with symbolic diagrams portraying one aspect or another of initiation rites.

69

• Daylight in the Swamp • eastern Manitoba had never been more destructive.

common to hear the name pronounced "Ojibwa" in

Perhaps this is why the people who lived along the Berens

Canada and "Chippewa" in the northern United States.

River, just to the north of Lac Seul and extending all the

Curiously, I know of no aboriginal name, from "Ottaway"

way to Lake Winnipeg, had begun to lose faith in their

to "loway" that hasn't had the "y" removed and its

traditional medicine. In any event, Hallowell visited the

pronunciation changed. For further information about

port of Berens River on Lake Winnipeg just as the

the Ojibway language, see Sacred Scrolls of the Southern

Midaywaywin Society was dying. Local practitioners were

Ojibway.

discarding their ceremonial equipment. Hallowell came into an astounding collection of magical medicine bags that included the skins of song birds (even humming birds) and every sort of larger animal. He also purchased or was given the largest collection of birchbark scrolls. These would later make it possible for me to trace the Midaywaywin Society back to its ancestral home in Leech Lake, Minnesota. The Name "Ojibway" Sources differ about the origin of the word "Ojibway". For example, the anthropologist Diamond Jenness called them "People of the puckered moccasin" thinking that "Ojibway" referred to the Ojibway practice of stitching their moccasins into a rawhide pucker around the toe. But the name surely originates in their history: in the nineteenth century certain bands had travelled westward along the South shore of Lake Superior under pressure from the Iroquois of the lower Great Lakes. Led by the Whooping Crane clan, they adopted its name: "Ochibweh", literally "voice of the crane". Today it is very 70

chapter six

Lac

Seu I

Sagas

Saturday was even more strenuous for a storm we had

In retrospect, I think my two long summers at Lac

the other day . . . the worst anyone who experienced it had

Seul were the happiest of my life. The long idyll of

ever seen . . . made a mess of the first portage . . . made a

peaceful summer days was punctuated from time to

regular corduroy road out of it.

time by adventures, which only fuelled my love for life

From a letter home, Hudson September 1 1929

in the bush. The storm I wrote home about illustrates the unpredictable and sometimes turbulent nature of my stay.

Figure 13, Untitled

It happened on a Wednesday. I saw the whole show from the mission house. It began with a weirdly lit dark grey ceiling and distant rumbles of thunder. Following this, a black roll of turbulence came overhead. I could feel the bottom drop out of the barometer as one end of the black roll dipped down, revolving vertically now, and skimmed over the trees on the far side of the lake. Then came the tronado-like wind that broke six windows in the mission house, and obliterated the landscape. I had almost forgotten the storm when I left the next Saturday morning for Hudson. The first portage was an easy quarter mile. Travelling light, with only my church 71

• Daylight in the Swamp • garments and suit coat in a knapsack that formed a pad

the grace of God that I didn't break a leg, or worse, as I

for my shoulders, I carried canoe and all, intending to

miraculously recovered my balance before tumbling,

make a single trip of it. Halfway over, I was suddenly

canoe and all, onto or through the hard trunks.

confronted with the work of the twister. Cutting across

Thus, a fifteen-minute portage took the better part of

the portage at right angles, it had laid a mature, forty foot

an hour. The reader may well ask, "Was that fun?" The

stand of white poplar like hail-flattened straw across the

answer is yes. That is part of the fun of bush travel.

portage trail.

Standing on firm ground again and looking back, I

The first prostrate tree I came to lay only a foot above

enjoyed the sense of achievement. Did I actually carry the

the ground so I stepped up on it. I saw two more a bit

canoe over all that deadfall? I stared in awe at the havoc

higher and stepped up again. When you carry a canoe on

behind me, the canoe still on my shoulders.

the level, the gunwales rest on your shoulders so that the

Normally that portage was a breeze. Beyond lay a two-

load is evenly balanced fore and aft, your hands extended

mile stretch of water, then a two-mile portage into a huge

forward so you can keep the balance steady. However, with

wild rice field. Passing that I would come to a bare

your head inside an inverted canoe, your vision is limited

headland, Frenchman's Head, where the government

to a few feet of the trail ahead. To see further, you must let

made annual treaty payments to a half dozen Ojibway

the bow swing upward and, of course, you can increase

bands. Beyond that was the carrying place, little more than

your range of vision even further by swinging the canoe

a lift over a narrow peninsula within sight of Hudson.

left or right. This is just what I was doing while balancing

There was joy then, in stretching my body to its limits,

somewhat precariously on the third prostrate trunk. I

finding what I could achieve by my own efforts. There

confronted a choice. The top trunk before me was waist

was no Everest, nothing deserving even a line in the local

high. Beyond and below I could catch a glimpse of

newspaper, only the satisfaction of having tested myself

ground. Before me the swathe of tree trunks piled higher

and met the challenge. Another such story is coming, but

and higher. Should I retreat or climb on? There was no

first, an illustration of what happened when I didn't

choice, no detour possible. I could have let the canoe

depend on myself. In this instance I weakly acquiesced to

down and slid it before me as I climbed but somehow it

a foolish scheme, accepting dependence on another

looked easier to go on climbing. Which I did. Somehow, I

man—and his machine.

carried the canoe while crawling, leaping and balancing to

In short, I allowed the HBC apprentice, Sandy

reach a high point a good twelve feet or more above the

Wraight, to attach his newly acquired one-and-a-half-

ground. Descending, my foot slipped and it was only by

horse-power motor to the mission canoe one Saturday. 72

• Daylight in the Swamp • He pleaded that he had urgent mail for Hudson: "I have

gleaming machine. On the other hand, I couldn't help

to get these letters on the train tonight!" I was planning to

thinking it was rather nice to have a machine doing the

go to Hudson anyway, so why not go together, my canoe

paddling for a change.

powered by his machine? The arrangement had all the

About two minutes later, the motor died. I had to dip

ingredients of a disaster; he knew nothing about canoes

my paddle continuously to keep the canoe straight while

and I knew nothing about motors.

Sandy pulled and pulled and pulled. Nearly an hour

With Wraight merely paddling bow and with single

passed before Sandy began to look a little frustrated.

trips over portages we could easily have cut at least one of

"Maybe she's flooded," I said for the sixth time. Sandy

my (normal) seven hours to Hudson. Thanks to the

gave me a dirty look, then began pulling again with more

machine and Wraight's perseverance, this trip took

energy than I thought he had in him. Then, suddenly, the

slightly over twenty-four hours! For one thing, Wraight

motor caught and away we went. For nearly a minute.

wanted to take the all-water route: "Sure, it's miles longer,

When the motor spluttered out, we glided on our briefly

but we'd save the time it would take to do the portages.

acquired momentum. The sound of waves lapping the

We might even make it to Hudson sooner."

canoe's bottom made the silence even more powerful.

The suggestion caught me by surprise. I had often

"Maybe you're choking her too much," I suggested.

thought about taking the longer route, even though it was

I was quite sincere but by this time Sandy's social

twice as long as the direct route made possible by the

facade began to disintegrate, with some paranoia just

portages. So, why not? It would be nice to make the trip

visible in the rents. His quick glance at me carried an

without portages for a change. Nevertheless, I cringed

implicit sneer. Then he went back, indefatigably back, to

when he began attaching his beloved motor to my

his pulling again. I imagined the starting cord wearing

beloved canoe. But the desecration proved possible, as he

out. I yearned to be quit of the whole adventure. Then, of

demonstrated by hitching the motor to one side of the

course, the motor started again.

canoe by a wooden frame. It was a perfect morning: clear

Soon we were going along at a good clip, at least half

sky with a moderate west wind. We had loaded up and

again as fast as my paddling pace, as we began to near the

pushed off at eight-o-clock, sure that we would make

first portage. Sandy was all smiles now. He shouted

Hudson before dark. The motor behaved beautifully,

something over the sound of the motor, pointed to it

starting on the second pull. I settled down in the bow,

triumphantly, then held up a pair of crossed fingers. He

feeling ambivalent. On one hand I had become a

shouted, "Which way do we go now?" I shouted back,

displaced person, robbed of my commanding role by a

"We've got to make a choice."

73

• Daylight in the Swamp • His eyes roamed the horizon and a frown marred the happy expression. "I don't see any buoys."

stern down uncomfortably close to the level of the lake. Water began to come in. Sandy doubtless saw the water

This was the one occasion on the whole trip that the

sloshing about his feet but set his chin stubbornly, as if he

machine would take an interest in the trip or show the

would keep the motor running even under water if

slightest response. It conked out. As we drifted, the wind

necessary. I finally prevailed on him to pull into shore,

took us eastward, instead of south, as we intended. I tried

where we dumped water out of the canoe, loaded, and set

to explain my thinking. Point A: We could continue our

out. It took perhaps half an hour to get the motor started

present stretch but we were almost at the first portage. It

and we were off again. But again we shipped water, went

was quite short and it would cut five miles off our

ashore to dump the canoe, and so on.

journey. B: I had noticed that the motor was kicking

Now we approached the second portage, the long one.

water into the canoe. The portage would enable us to

We went ashore to discuss the matter. Sandy felt weary

dump the canoe and to figure out a better way of

and discouraged. All our clothing was soaked and it was

attaching the motor. Sandy listened to all of this, his face

only one hour to sunset. On the other hand, the wind had

set in a dour mask.

dropped, easing the problem of constantly shipping

"No. She should start easily now." After five pulls on

water. Frankly, I was in no mood for a mile-long portage,

the starter cord with no response from the motor, he

carrying water-heavy gear. Why not take the long way

silently picked up his paddle. At the portage, I carried the

around after all?

canoe, Sandy the motor and we split the rest of the load to make it over in one carry.

An hour later the kicker quit again and refused to go any farther. There was no point in continuing. Although

On the other side of the portage we examined the way

the moon was full, the sky was overcast and we couldn't

the motor had been attached, decided that it had to go on

take the chance of shearing a pin on unseen rocks. We put

that way. We wound an old army issue blanket around the

into shore and, while Sandy pulled and pulled and pulled,

motor to stop water from spouting into the stern.

I made camp. Luckily, I had brought Dad's silk tent with

Now we were on a good three-mile stretch of the Canoe River with a lively west wind abeam. Miraculously,

me. We got the tent up just in time to get out of the rain. We spent the night under damp blankets.

the motor started on Sandy's first pull and we went gaily

The next morning, the kicker made a number of half-

along. The blanket was working fine although it was also

hearted attempts to start but I finally had to break the

getting thoroughly soaked. The combined weight of

bad news to Sandy. We would have to carry the motor in

Sandy, the motor and the wet blanket had brought the

the canoe, paddling it the last five or six miles to Hudson.

74

• Daylight in the Swamp • We limped into Hudson with my church clothes sopping

showed a creek that ran out of a small lake on the direct

wet, both of us foodless since the previous noon. I must

route. The creek passed so close to one of the lakes

confess that I felt a certain unholy pleasure that Wraight's

feeding into Route Lake that it seemed there must be

mail had missed the night train.

some sort of trail between the creek and the lake. And

I don't know what finally became of Sandy's motor

even if there wasn't one, I could easily cut a small portage

but he never suggested trying it on my canoe again. After

that would take me across. In any case the less direct

my delayed Church service in the village schoolhouse, I

route, by way of Route Bay and Route River, was nearly

took off for Lac Seul with just enough time to make it

twice as long,

before dark.

In fact, the shorter route looked almost as short as the

The episode that I recall with quiet satisfaction

trip to Hudson, with only two small portages. I started off

occurred during my second summer at Lac Seul. During

in mid-morning, expecting to be camping with my

both summers, I had enjoyed making canoe trips to

"flock" by nightfall. By noon I reached the small bay

mines and construction sites, to fishing camps and berry

shown on the map. It turned out to be more of a large

grounds. I did this without appealing to higher

swamp. But I found the mouth of my creek, winding and

authorities, all in the name of ministering to both native

quite deep, true to its kind. It closed up rather abruptly

people and whites, whichever seemed to be in greatest

when I reached the bush. This was a pity because it would

need of my ministrations at the time. I made the 120-

have been quite navigable if it weren't so choked up with

mile trip to Red Lake twice and had travelled by canoe to

deadfall and alders. No matter. I would chop my way

Gold Pines three times during my Lac Seul sojourn. But it

upstream, cutting through some of the trees, pushing the

was the much shorter trip to Route Lake that I must

canoe under or over the others. The flies were a bit on the

relate here.

thick and friendly side and it was sweaty and tiring work.

It was berry-picking time. I heard that there was a

However, when I stopped to measure my progress, I

magnificent crop just ripening near the CPR section stop

found Fd gone scarcely half a mile in two hours. Looking

at Millidge on Route Lake. It was attracting Ojibway

at the map, I thought I would encourage myself by hiking

families from as far away as Red Lake. What better excuse

over to the nearest ridge to get a look ahead. In half an

for a jaunt in my beloved canoe?

hour, stirring up more mosquitos as I went, I had climbed

My map, based on a 1906 river triangulation survey,

the ridge. I scanned the horizon to the southeast,

showed two possible canoe routes into Millidge. The

Nothing. No water in any direction except the gleam

more direct route had no portages marked but the map

of Lac Seul behind me. Returning to my map, I studied it

75

• Daylight in the Swamp • again. There must be a portage somewhere. Maybe I

Wearily I arose, repacked the canoe, untied it and

should look south of the creek. I made a half-hearted

paddled down the endlessly winding stream until I reached

foray into the bush on the other side. Meanwhile, I

the open lake. There was a nice little rocky island with a

realized the light was failing. Was it clouding over?

dimly discerned shelving shore. Again I tied up the canoe,

Overhead the sky was still clear. It couldn't be getting

spread a tarpaulin on the rock, and crawled under the dry

that late!

side of my sleeping robe. The night was clear and full of

Was it possible that I would have to camp in this hellhole? I wasn't crazy so I made my way out to the lake

stars. Promising myself to be under way again at the crack of dawn, I let sleep knit up the ravelled sleeve of care ...

again. It took less time, thanks to my previous axe-work,

Unfortunately, the sleeve began unravelling very soon.

but it was twilight by the time I reached the mouth of the

I awoke feeling little stabs of pain all over my body. The

creek and it would be dark by the time I got clear of the

moon was up. In its light I could make out a thousand

swamp. And I was hungry

ants playing Liliputians to my Gulliver. They evidently

Through the reeds I spied a rock outcrop. It shelved

resented the weight of my body on their doorstep. I

out of the water within easy reach and it hosted a small

staggered to my feet, brushing off the little demons only

clump of dead alders. I paddled through the reeds,

to find that some had jaws so firmly embedded in my

pulled the nose of the canoe up on the rock, leaving

flesh, they wouldn't let go! The whole island, it turned

enough room for a small fire. I made the fire from dry

out, was one huge anthill.

alder sticks then, having fed myself, settled down to

Wearily I paddled back down the lake whence I had

write a letter home by the light of the fire. When I

come earlier that day. That is, the previous day. The sky

finished the letter, it occurred to me then how much

was greying in the east when I reached the mission house

more comfortable I'd be if I spread my bedroll on the

and the solace of a dry and bugless bed.

bottom of the canoe. I would tie the canoe to the alders

Later that morning, I turned the canoe over to inspect

and let it float, gently rocking me to sleep in the cradle

it for leaks. There it was, a neat hole punched through

of the swamp.

canvas and hull alike by a small snag. It must have

This worked fine, as far as it went. In fact it went as far

happened on the return trip in my haste to get out of that

as two in the morning when I awakened feeling rather

damned creek. By evening the canoe was dry enough for a

cold in spite of the eiderdown sleeping blanket. I was

patch and a healing application of ambroid glue. Just then

particularly cold underneath. I reached under myself and

Hughes came around, enquiring in his polite English way

came to with a start. Water!

how the hole happened. 76

• Daylight in the Swamp • "I say, you're not going to try the other route." It was

I have ever gorged myself on. One small lake, another

a statement, not a question. "Not until the morning," I

brief portage, and I was out on Route Lake. I should have

told him.

paid more heed to some steep rock walls on my left, but

He stared at me to see whether I was serious. Deciding that I meant it after all, he said, "Well, all I can say is that

the white tents and ascending smoke of the berry-pickers' camp had caught my attention.

you've got a big heart!" (Although I didn't realize it at the

Johnny Akewance, the big warden of the mission

time, this was literally true. Much later in life I was to

church, came down to the shore, greeting me with, "Keen

learn that a bout of rheumatic fever as a child left me

tap'shkoo Ahnishinahbi!" ("You're just like an Indian!")

with a faulty valve and a heart that had enlarged to

That's when I learned that I was the only one that had

compensate.)

paddled in to Millidge. The others had all arrived by

I got up at the crack of dawn the next day and reached

railway flatcar from Hudson.

the falls at the mouth of Route River in less than three

I can't leave this story without mentioning the mad

hours. The portage was tricky. I had to haul the canoe up

trapper who had a cabin nearby and kept goats. As I

vertically from the water. Once on the portage, I found

cooked my supper over a campfire that evening, a billy

the trail dry and firm. I passed through glades of

goat, with a great leather shield as a birth control device,

jackpine, stopping only to refresh myself on the most

took a certain hostile interest in me. He pawed the

luscious aggregation of ripe, dew-cooled blueberries that

ground, looking as though he would charge me. I threw a Figure 1 4. Trapper's Cabin

77

• Daylight in the Swamp • stick or two at him to drive him off. Then he was back,

into the billy who took one look and fled. "Precipitately"

pawing the ground and looking more serious than ever,

would be the word.

He would advance a few paces as though working up to a

I held two services, one that evening, one the next

good charge, until I threw more sticks at him. But with

morning, then paddled and portaged my way back to the

each advance, the sticks did less and less to discourage the

mission house without further incident. But it took a

goat and he got closer and closer. In fact, he got so close,

good week to get the smell of that goat out of my clothes,

he couldn't even get a good run at me so I grabbed his hnrnc tn VinlH Viim off

In the next phase of this heroic encounter, we started going around in circles. He shoved and I kept trying to twist him sideways off his feet. Finding that this was impossible, I kept one hand on his horns and picked up my axe with the other hand. I began labouring him with the handle of the axe but this had no effect at all. Perhaps I should have banged him on the nose. As we went around and around in circles, I tried to talk nicely to the goat. Then I started yelling. I had almost reached the point of abandoning my pastoral role and begin swearing at him when I became aware that we had an audience. The whole band of berrypickers stood on the hill above us, watching. Possibly they made bets on who would win the struggle. They didn't laugh but appeared seriously absorbed in the whole performance. I was rescued when, either out of boredom or out of sympathy with my plight, a few men rushed down the hill toward us. One of them brandished a whip fashioned from a stick and numerous strands of telephone wire. It whistled viciously and obviously put the fear of the Lord

78

Daylight in the Swamp

F i g u r e 1 5, Hunter, 1938

79

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chapter seven

The

Canoe

During my first summer at Lac Seul, I stood one day

happened had I not been watching the storm. She would

at the old mission house window, watching a storm

have been battered beyond recognition, an empty hull of

build up down the lake. My canoe was pulled well up

cracked ribs that some tourist operator would fill with

on the beach, some twenty feet from the shore.

earth and geraniums to grace his camp. The experience

Suddenly the water blackened ominously under the

burned deep. Forever after, whenever I came ashore in

impetus of a wicked-looking squall. Before I knew it the

any canoe, I would tie it to the nearest tree, bush or rock,

wind caught the canoe, rolled it over once, then once

oblivious to the raised eyebrows of any onlookers.

more. The wind took the canoe all the way to the water,

Not all canoes are equally worth saving, however. My

where by a miracle it landed upright. My relief turned

love for canoes has the same degree of generality as my

to horror when I saw the canoe go sailing, unmanned,

affection for women. I do not love them all equally.

toward the rocks at Church Point. It was like watching a

The best canoe rides the waves much like an Atlantic

child being hurled to destruction. At once I was out of

dory does. My birchbark canoe, for example, has a

the house, my feet flying with the wings of fear along

bottom that is subtly curved from stem to stern. When

the beach and toward the rocks where she would come

pointed into waves, it rocks into them, rather than

ashore. My canoe, of course, was utterly unconscious of

ploughing through them. Travelling with large waves, or

her peril. But I made it to the rocks just before the

into them, one is less likely to swamp. My favourite canoe

canoe did and pulled her safely out of the angry water,

was the fifteen-foot prospector type that I bought in

the wind whipping my hair.

Toronto in the early fifties. She had a keeless bottom and a nice full belly, just flat enough for shallow water, but not

My blood ran cold at the thought of what might have 81

Daylight in the Swamp

Figure 16, Studies of canoes

flat enough to slap down after a passing wave.

never seen a birchbark canoe, they come equipped with a

I have never been as fond of larger canoes. I did not

strip of foam rubber along either side to make them

particularly love the seventeen- foot freight canoe that

unsinkable. The only one I ever looked at closely drew

took Father and me to Big Trout Lake. Nor did I embrace

me, with all the horrifying fascination of a bad traffic

the twenty-two-footer that we rode to Hudson Bay on the

accident, to a hardware store window one day. I couldn't

same trip. Both canoes were designed for a maximum

take my eyes off it.

load and a minimum draught, workhorses of the North.

While venting my spleen, I must mention the

Finally, there are some canoes that I abhor. For

outboard motor, of course. The northern name for this

example, there is the "tin" canoe. This pejorative covers all

infernal machine, the kicker, came from an unpleasant

makes of metal canoes, whether of aluminum, galvanized

habit it had of kicking. It kicked when you started it,

iron, or sheet metal of any sort. Durable? Yes. Light?

giving one little bleat before remaining silent for the next

Sometimes. But just lay your paddle as gently as you

twenty pulls. And it kicked while it ran. These loathsome

please across the gunwales and the noise of ringing metal

machines first appeared in Kenora Bay in the mid-

will send all wildlife for miles around scurrying away,

twenties. Their buzzing echoed raucously over the bay,

Within this family of craft, there is no greater

stalling and restarting, muttering and dying. The only

abomination unto the Lord than the horrid tin boats that

pleasure they gave me was the sight of someone

appear every summer atop the cars of tourists. Painted

desperately pulling the starting cord as his craft neared

with a simulated birchbark pattern by someone who has

the rocks on a windy day. My loathing came to a head

82

• Daylight in the Swamp • when the first square-stern canoes appeared: the addition

lightness, and if you pack too much into it it begins to

of a transom had only one purpose, to accommodate an

behave like a heavier boat. If you happen to be headed

outboard motor. It threatens to quit just when you need it

into the waves, each wave crest (where the shipping water

most and has an unpleasant habit of bursting into flame

comes from) passes quickly so it hasn't much time to

when refuelling.

pour water over the gunwale. Heading away from the

Perhaps the worst feature of an outboard-powered

waves is more troublesome. A big following wave can give

boat is that it disconnected you from the environment.

you real trouble. On top of that, if passing you obliquely,

You hear nothing over the motor and you see little

it keeps you busy as you fight to stop it from slewing the

game. Worst of all, you never learned the subtleties of

canoe, which must be turned sideways just before or just

wind and wave.

after a large wave passes beneath.

The wind touches me in a way that no other element

Paddling into a stiff headwind is plain hard work.

can. Recall the sound it makes whistling through a

Here, a good heavy load can be an advantage because it

verandah screen on a hot August day as you watch the

helps keep up momentum between strokes of the paddle.

whitecaps out on the lake. Remember the roar it makes

Nothing is more disheartening, when fighting a head

threshing a stand of poplars by a portage, a roar easily

wind with a lightly loaded canoe, than the sudden

mistaken for a nearby falls.

arresting smack it makes just after a very big wave passes.

I have seen the wind, too, and felt it. I have seen it

It first picks up the bow then drops it abruptly into the

sweeping down the lake in catspaws and great

following trough, with a shock that brings your canoe to

blackenings. I have felt it gusting so strongly I could

an abrupt standstill, especially when helped by a sudden,

barely stand up and I have felt it blowing more gently

nicely timed gust of wind. You grit your teeth and build

than silk. I have smelled the freshness of the Keewatin,

up momentum all over again, knowing that the next big

that cool northern breeze that drives away cloying

wave could bring a fresh smack.

tropical air from the south. Wind makes waves and it becomes the business of any canoeist to learn about both. I have learned the hard way.

Out on a rough lake, you can make things easier for yourself if you watch the water. Sometimes what looks like a doozer of a wave suddenly slackens just before it

The riskiest situation for a canoe is travelling

arrives at your canoe. All waves do this, sooner or later. If

downwind, at an oblique angle to the direction of the

you follow any large wave with your eye, you will see it

waves, especially if you are heavily loaded and have little

slowly flatten and subside while the waves behind or in

freeboard. Part of the wave-worthiness of a canoe is its

front take up the slack. When a gust of wind is about to

83

• Daylight in the Swamp • bear down on you, it blackens and flattens the water only

the dominant ones. When the two kinds of waves meet,

to leave even larger waves in its wake. It also helps to

even larger waves may result.

picture the flow of wind in your mind. Shore contours

Between gusts and squalls there are lulls. In a fierce

have a big influence on the wind, even to the point of

head wind, it makes more sense to inch your way forward

changing its direction. For example, you may duck into

with a minimum of effort. Then, when the lull comes, put

the lee of a large island only to find that the wind follows

your back into the paddle and build some momentum for

you halfway around. Then, before you even emerge from

the next encounter. In a strong and continuous

the lee, you find yourself fighting a headwind! Even out

headwind, it's stupid to fight it up a long stretch. If there

on the open water, individual gusts of wind may vary in

are islands along your route, you can work your way from

direction by as much as ninety degrees. These gusts may

the lee of one to the lee of the next, almost like a game.

create smaller waves that travel in an oblique direction to

But in the absence of islands, it's wiser simply to go

Figure 17. Waves on Lake

84

• Daylight in the Swamp • ashore and wait for the wind to subside. Even a three-day

waves, you can keep the canoe absolutely stable in a

blow will slow down a bit in the late afternoon and

vertical plane, even as you ride up and down. I have

evening to give you a chance to make up lost miles.

argued with fellow canoeists about this manoeuvre. I

Island-hopping is a special skill that experience

maintain that it's safer to meet a big wave abeam if you

teaches. Unfortunately, islands are never lined up in neat

can keep the canoe vertical. That way, all parts of the

rows along your route, so you must zig-zag from one to

canoe have essentially the same amount of support, and

the next. This means that you will be travelling obliquely

there's no danger of one end going under or of shipping

to the waves. Watch them as you go and take the bigger

water from wave-crests.

ones head-on by swinging the canoe into the wind, then

It may happen that the wind favours your direction of

cut back toward the island before the next big wave

travel and a spell of tiredness falls over you. Or perhaps

comes. Here, you must avoid letting the wind catch the

you feel just plain lazy. Then it's time to make a sail. My

canoe, blowing it abeam and allowing the next roller to

first experience with canoe sailing, learned from a master,

hit you broadside. It's a good way to capsize unless you're

contains all the instruction you need. After our last

experienced. When the next big one comes, turn the

portage into Sachiago Lake on the the trip with Dad to

canoe into it again. Between large waves, there are

Big Trout, we found a stiff west wind blowing down its

sometime plateaus, as in a mountain range. If you watch

fifteen-mile length. Moses, our guide, seemed in no hurry

for these, you can sometimes avoid the big waves

to get started. Instead, he went into the bush to cut down

altogether, at least for a while, as you move from one

a small dead spruce which he trimmed to a light,

plateau to the next.

eighteen-foot pole. This puzzled me. Then he took one of

What happens if a big wave comes to you abeam? A

our canoe poles, used for pushing upstream, and tapered

little practice with smaller waves will show you how to

the butt end with his axe. Mystifying me further, he tied a

use your paddle to keep the canoe stable. Hold your

cord around the longer pole two or three feet from its

paddle vertically in the water with its blade parallel to

butt end and knotted it twice, leaving a loop barely big

the canoe for maximum leverage. When the big wave

enough to shove a thumb through. I still couldn't figure

begins to lift the craft, it will tilt you away from it, as on

what he was about. Next he spread our largest tarpaulin

the side of a hill. Pull the blade of the paddle in the same

(about twelve by fifteen feet) on a flat rock, laid the the

direction the wave is travelling, putting all your weight

freshly cut pole along one of its long sides with the

into it. On the downhill side of the wave, work the

knotted rope on one corner. By the time he laid the canoe

paddle in the opposite direction. With any but the largest

pole diagonally across the sheet so that the tapered end

85

• Daylight in the Swamp • met the knot, I recognized what the contraption was

following wave wave lifted us on its crest to balance the

becoming—a sail!

canoe briefly amidships. Although we were heavily

He fitted the tapered end of the short pole through the

enough laden to prevent waves from lifting us that much,

loop, then tied the other end to the third corner of the

I got a bit nervous at the end of the lake where the waves

tarp. It had become a spar. He tied the tarp to the top of

were big enough to slop over the gunwale from time to

the long pole, now a mast, and tied a rope to the fourth

time. In any event, Moses steered a course that kept us

corner, completing the rig.

close to the south shore of the lake so that we could land

He carried the whole assembly to the canoe to fit the

quickly if we got into trouble.

butt of the mast into the vee of the bow, at the bottom,

I had sailed in a canoe only once before this. A few

just behind the nose. He secured the mast to the bow

years earlier in Kenora, my brother Albert devised a

gunwales with rope, we loaded the canoe and were off. As handmade sail, mast and lee-boards to fit the family we paddled away from the shore, the wind came fitfully canoe. With a bit of practice and the right sort of wind, and the sail filled and slackened. I could see now why

you could tack two or three degrees upwind. In place of a

Moses had attached the spar to the mast by a loop,

keel the two lee-boards, one on either side of the canoe

Whenever the wind shifted, the sail could swing without

just ahead of the mid-ship thwart, kept the canoe on

getting twisted around the mast.

course. I can recall using this rig to cross Kenora Bay to

At last we were out in the wind and the sail billowed bravely out. We all took up comfortable positions on or

the fish market. The wind blew at right angles to my course so I sailed all the way in both directions,

among the baggage, all except Moses, that is. He sat in the

You can't quite do this in a northern rig like the one

stern, steering with his paddle, the rope from the spar-

Moses devised. Even if you have a keel (which no true

end wrapped about his paddle at the pivot point. We canoe would tolerate), it's far too shallow to prevent moved along briskly in the breeze. It was an ideal day for

drifting to the lee when you tack into the wind. But with

canoe sailing. The sky was clear and the wind, though

a lively wind behind, you can zip along at seven or eight

steady was not so strong that accumulating waves reached

knots and still hold the wind in your sail if you want to

dangerous proportions as we made our way down the

quarter to port or to starboard.

lake. Moses had loaded the canoe so she was lighter in the

The trickiest bit of sailing I ever did in a canoe was on

bow. If he had not done this, the downward pressure of

Lac Seul. I had used the sail to good effect on the way up

the mast would have driven the bow dangerously low, and

to the mining community of Red Lake, enjoying a

we would have found ourselves slewing badly when a

succession of fine August days. The second day out I was

86

Daylight in the Swamp greeted by a fine southwest wind, which I took advantage

animal trying to evade the wind by rocking from side to

of by going ashore and fashioning a sail in the style of

side. The gyrations thoroughly alarmed me. There was no

Moses the year before. It was a steady breeze, and with my

question of crawling forward to take down the mast. I

armstrong engine (my Dad's term for the human arm)

would be swamped in a second. Instead, I did the only

supplementing the sail, I enjoyed a good seven or eight

sensible thing I could do. I let go of the spar-rope. In

knots of speed. That was on a Friday.

seconds the entire sail swung out ahead of the mast to

The following Monday, I was on my way back to the mission on Lac Seul. I had broken my camp at dawn and

flap there like a huge canvas flag. It was still all I could do to keep from capsizing.

set out along Lac Seul, now heading east. There was a

The wind was taking me straight toward the island,

long stretch ahead of me terminated by an island that

now a mere half- mile away. I could see the spray on its

straddled the lake, creating a double narrows at the end.

rocky shore. I decided to make for the narrows on the left.

Again a wind came up and I relished the thought of

For every five or six yards I drifted helplessly before the

making the stretch into an easy sail. I rigged a new sail

wind, I tried to work the canoe a yard to the left. I used all

which bellied out magnificently in the following wind.

the techniques described above.

Halfway down the eight-mile stretch, the waves were

When I looked back, if I saw a gust of wind blackening

getting to be a fair size but I was enjoying my sail. Then

the water, I would swing the canoe downwind until it

the wind got even stronger.

roared past me. Then I would turn the canoe to the left,

If this keeps up, I told myself, it would be easy enough

watching the while for large waves to dodge or plateaus to

to swing the bow into the wind, then climb forward to

aim for. When another gust came, I would straighten the

yank the mast out. The wind would then blow the sail flat

canoe out again. When I finally came to the rocks, I

along the canoe without even wetting it. I could then turn

missed them narrowly, quickly took refuge in the lee of

the canoe broadside to the waves and paddle for the

the island, and dismantled the sailing rig. I'd had enough

shore, stabilizing the canoe (in the manner I described

for one day. Downwind from the island the waves were

earlier) whenever a particularly big roller came along.

reasonable again and I paddled all the way to the mission,

Man proposes, God disposes. Two miles from the narrows, the wind began to gust badly and a certain

almost enjoying the way following waves would pick up the canoe and almost carry it a few feet.

defect in my rig became apparent. Each time a gust bore

Shortly after this experience, I met a short, wiry man

down on me, the spar would swing up toward the mast,

in Hudson with whom I got talking about canoeing in

spilling the sail. The rig reminded me of a desperate

general and waves in particular. We agreed that if you

87

• Daylight in the Swamp could get on the forward side of a sufficiently large wave and paddle like hell, it would carry your canoe along like a surf-board. He claimed that he had paddled all the way across Great Bear Lake in a howling gale. The wind just kept getting stronger and stronger until he could see the huge waves crashing on cliffs a half-mile away. So he waited for the biggest wave he could find, stayed with it all the way in and landed in the bush atop a twenty-foot cliff!

88

chapter eight

Up Shetland Creek

Alf the cook tells it best: how they grounded on a rock

exactly brilliant. Entering the honours philosophy

above a rapid with a three-foot drop, how Keys failed to

program, I was exposed to first year honours Latin, which

hold the bow when they worked her off, and stood helpless

had already been the bete noire of my entire high school

on a rock on midstream as the canoe was swept down,

career. I failed the course. When I appealed my failure on

brightly remarking, "There she goes!" How he, Alphonse,

the grounds that the program required no further Latin

jumped out of the canoe into the water up to his neck and,

in any case, the eminent philosopher who headed the

stemming the current with one shoulder, hoisted the canoe

department made matters very plain. "Dewdney," he said,

on the other. From the author's journal on the Missinaibi River, July 1935

Figure 18. T r a p p e r ' s cabin, 1935

After my Lac Seul sojourn, five more years were to pass before I got back to the bush. And then I really got back to the bush. By the time I had completed my second summer at Lac Seul, I was convinced that I would not fit comfortably into the Anglican ministry. When I returned to Toronto for the final year of an arts degree, I moved out of Wycliffe College and rented an attic room on St. Patrick Street just south of College Avenue. My beginnings at the University of Toronto were not

89

Daylight in the Swamp "the honours course in philosophy includes a year of

Dana's Minerals and How to Study Them became my

honours Latin to eliminate students like yourself."

bible. It initiated me into the ABC's of crystallography

My transfer to the general program, as then ordained

and blowpipe analysis. I laboured long hours putting

by the university, gave me the choice of any five courses

together a cedar cabinet with a sliding glass top to house

out of twenty. I found myself in clover. One of my

my growing mineral collection.

choices, geology, was inspired by an early fascination with

Even my faithful Sunday school attendance paid off.

rocks that blossomed when I was in high school. It had

Through my teacher, "Nellie" Carpenter, I got to know

begun with that enormous rock I found as a boy,

the Machin family. Colonel Machin owned the Mikado

paddling the family canoe on Sand Lake in Saskatchewan.

gold mine on Shoal Lake. One summer the Machins

I have already described the impact of our move from the

invited me to stay with them for a week or so. The mine

prairies, where rocks were as rare as hen's teeth, to Lake of

was closed but the Colonel took me to a minor surface

the Woods, a land of solid rock.

vein, its pyrites weathered and crumbling. We took it to

When I entered high school in Kenora, I found to my

the mine laboratory, crushed it fine in a mortar and

great fortune that the principal (nicknamed "Rosy") had

pestle, then melted it down. When we poured the

a masters degree in geology. In those days Ontario high

molten rock into a bone ash cup, the cooling revealed a

schools offered a course in geology as an alternative to

gradual alchemy. A tiny button of pure gold emerged

geography. The rocky setting of Kenora offered ample

from the mixture.

scope to budding geologists. Along the CPR tracks which

Following graduation, I taught high school for two

I followed part way to school, I could find examples of

years in Owen Sound. At the same time, a growing

igneous rocks in the cuts the tracks passed through, and

interest in art attracted me to the Ontario College of Art.

sedimentary rocks in the railbed itself. The latter I could

There, I took summer courses in landscape painting from

readily break open for inspection by hurling them at the

J. W. Beatty. In the fall of 1934, I'd saved enough money

steel rails. I went from rocks to minerals, acquiring a

to attend the College full time, and Beatty admitted me

blowpipe to analyse the composition of various rocks that

into the third year of the drawing and painting course. By

I collected.

the spring of 1935, the depression was in its trough, I was

I especially loved the rock cuts that exposed rugged

flat broke, and things were bad everywhere. My brother

granite faces I could climb to my heart's delight. Here,

Albert, for example, had graduated in mechanical

and in the abandoned quarry behind our house, I found

engineering, but his first job was delivering meat by

actual veins of calcite, pyroxene, pyrites, and so on.

motorcycle for a Toronto butcher. I was luckier. On

90

Daylight in the Swamp geologist at the Royal Ontario Museum. This man later turned out to be the one who would appoint the quota from the University of Toronto. I was to be one of two traverse men on a ten-man survey crew. Our job, along with eight other such parties, was to survey the transition zone between the precambrian formations of the Canadian Shield and the Hudson Bay Lowlands. The study area took in a wide region stretching both east and west of Kapuskasing. Thus it was that in the summer of 1935 I found myself in Figure 19. Buildings at Mattice, 1935

graduating from the OCA in 1935,1 applied for and got a

the bush again but in a way that tested me physically beyond anything I'd experienced before.

job with the Geological Survey of Canada. Five thousand

Our party met, identifying ourselves upon arrival, at

had applied but only nine hundred were chosen. Not only

Glassy Falls on the Missinaibi River. Here, six miles

had I taken geology as an arts subject, but through my interest in the field I had made the acquaintance of a

Figure 20. Porquis Junction, 1935

91

Figure 21. Porquis Junction, 1935

• Daylight in the Swamp • upstream from Mattice a village on the CNR northern

Once down the trail a bit, they may well have turned the

line, we made our campsite. The falls were well named.

air blue with blasphemy.

The water poured massively down in a glassy arch that

In the midst of our misery, no one thought at first of

smashed itself on a huge rock near the base. The red

the "one towel" he had been instructed to bring.

haired chief, a veteran of previous surveys, divided us into

Lonergan took the towel out of his pack, hung it over his

two parties, each to consist of a traverse man, two axemen

head from side to side, and tucked the ends in around his

and a cook. He personally took charge of one party and

shirt collar from back around to front which he securely

Boyes, a geology graduate, headed the other. I was

buttoned. Then he jammed his fedora onto his head over

traverse man in Boyes' party and two other students,

the towel. It worked almost perfectly.

Mark Lonergan and Jack Hegg, were the axemen. Our

Before the light failed I made a quick watercolour

cook was a man named Bill and Alf (quoted at the head

sketch of the falls. This was duly noted and later the chief

of this chapter) cooked for the chief's party. Before the

would ask me to paddle downstream in the expedition's

week was out, Mark and I would become firmly

seventeen foot canoe to sketch outcrops.

established traverse mates while Boyes, his face pitifully bloated by blackfly bites, would be out.

Traversing was a simple affair, on the face of it. Each township, laid out in 1906, occupied thirty square miles.

It was late June, the very peak of the mosquito season.

Lot posts set out at half-mile intervals marked the

The hungry hordes had already emerged from the bush in

township lines that ran east and west. Called range lines,

their millions, undeterred by any of our defences. Until

they set the northern and southern township boundaries.

Mark Lonergan's discovery.

Lot lines, blazed through the bush north to south,

We had no headnets, the citronella simply sweated off

connected corresponding lot posts on each range line. A

our skin after a few minutes, and effective sprays had yet

normal traverse started at a lot post on a range line, went

to be developed. Two prospectors came by as we engaged

north (or south) to the corresponding lot post on the

in our many defensive operations, swats and curses.

other range line, turned east (or west) along it to the next

Staying on for a chat, they seemed not to notice the

lot post, then turned south along that lot line back to the

mosquitoes. The mosquitoes attacked the pair just as

original range line a half mile from the starting point.

vigorously as they attacked us but the prospectors

If a party following a traverse came upon a rock

showed no sign of annoyance or even interest. This

outcrop, it would stop to investigate. This meant

impressed me enormously at the time although in

estimating the outcrop's area, charting it on the traverse

retrospect, I suspect they they were merely showing off.

map as to strike and dip, evidence of mineralization 92

Daylight in the Swamp and so on. We also had to take samples of each kind of

small lake or stream you couldn't wade across, an acre of

rock encountered.

muskeg, the path of a twister, and so on. There were any

To navigate we were equipped with a Brunton

number of obstacles along the way to throw out your

compass (a miniaturized surveyor's transit) and a pace

measurements. Ocean navigation was child's play by

meter. You held the latter instrument in your hand and

comparison—with one exception. Many of the township

merely pressed a lever every time the same foot came

lines and not a few lot lines were adopted as

down. For the average male, a thousand paces on normal

thoroughfares by the local four-footed populations. So,

terrain marked off a mile, a scale dating back to Roman

unless you went in circles (rather difficult, when carrying

times. A very tall, mooselegged man or a very short one,

a compass, but possible), you would sooner or later cross

would have to calibrate his paces, so to speak.

a township line. By following it to a lot post and reading

So much for theory. In practice you might encounter a

the markings, you could find out exactly where you were.

steep slope, an impassable thicket, a mile of fire slash, a

Navigating on the open sea offered no such conveniences, of course.

Figure 22. Sunday, pencil sketch

Over the summer, our parties surveyed four full townships and parts of three others. We covered Staunton, Shetland, Magladery, Orkney and Ebbs from four base camps that we set up along the Missinaibi River and its tributary, Shetland Creek. But we could reach two other townships, Devitt and McGowan, in the clay belt of the Hudson Bay lowlands, by a road that was destined to become Trans Canada Highway Number 11. Additional easement came from the absence of any significant outcrops in these areas. We enjoyed the occasional luxury of bedding down on the floor of a warehouse and being driven by truck to and from our daily traverse. Once, for example, we breezed through our eleven-mile traverse without seeing a single rock. We emerged from the bush onto a farm clearing with ample time to snooze happily on a pile of hay before the truck came to pick us up.

93

• Daylight in the Swamp • Upriver, however, our time was almost equally divided

into a rock where our bow grounded. I found a grip on

between traversing and moving our base. Once, when

the bottom with my paddle, trying in vain to hold the

moving our base, we got into the tight situation quoted at

stern. But the current was too strong. It swung us all the

the beginning of this chapter. We thought we could take

way around, lifting us off the rock in the process. We

both our canoes, a seventeen-foot, square-sterned freight

disappeared into white water, going backwards. I

canoe and a smaller one, over a rapids on the Missinaibi

remember only a sickening scrape on our keel, the bow

River. The freight canoe, driven by a kicker, went first.

suddenly dipping and filling with water. Miraculously it

Jack Hegg and I, in the smaller canoe, had been holding

came up again, the canoe half filled with water by now.

ourselves above the rapids until the freight canoe was

Meanwhile, the freight canoe went out of control, hit

clearly on its way along a gentler, left-hand channel of the

another rock and went over. That's when Alphonse the

rapids. We set ourselves into the more turbulent right-

cook jumped out of the canoe more or less involuntarily,

hand channel. That's when the freight canoe's motor

stemmed the current with one shoulder and hoisted the

caught on a rock. Once the boys got it free, however, it

canoe onto the other. They righted the canoe almost

pointed toward the left-hand channel—and the motor

immediately and went chasing downstream for a bedroll

was still running wide open. That's when Keys, standing

and one or two other unsecured items from the larger

helplessly on a rock in midstream, made his now famous

canoe. How our own canoe ever escaped capsizing, I'll

remark: "There she goes."

never know. It was, in any event, my first (and last)

Of course, the freight canoe was now heading into our

experience of shooting a rapids backwards.

channel. A collision seemed inevitable. All Jack and I

A kicker could get you into trouble in any number of

could do was paddle like hell and hope to hit the channel

ways. In those days when your motor ran out of gas, you

first. And the freighter, carrying everyone else but Keys,

simply poured more gas in from a tin you had along. This

had to go just as fast to avoid being swept into the

was a bit hazardous because if your motor was a little hot

seething fury of white water. We almost made it.

and you spilled a little gas on it, you were instantly on

I watched in a kind of fascinated horror from my

fire. Although I was involved in just such a fire on Lac

position in the stern of our canoe as the nose of the

Seul once, we never had this problem on the geological

freighter bore down on me. There was just time for one

survey in Northern Ontario.

more desperate stroke of the paddle before—bang! It got

Nevertheless, three of us, Stewart McBrien, John Hegg,

us two inches from the stern. The blow knocked us off

and I had to refuel the freight canoe's kicker one day as

our course, out of the smooth part of the channel, and

we came up a calm stretch of the Missinaibi River.

94

Daylight in the Swamp McBrien poured the gasoline from a large can that was nearly empty. He poured with a steady hand to avoid spilling any on the hot motor then, as was the common practice in those days, he dumped the can overboard. Hegg, whose attention must have been elsewhere, heard the splash. There followed the most amazing reflex action I've ever seen. Hegg was in the canoe one second and in the water the next, his arms around what he'd taken to be a man overboard—the spent gas can! We were all so startled by the intensity of the thing, awed even, that we forgot to laugh at the ludicrous expression on John's face as he eyed the "man" he had saved. There could be no doubting John's athletic prowess. I can recall a newspaper clipping he showed us once from his hometown paper. The sports page expressed regret that

Figure 23.

The Kid - Camp Helper, 1935

Hegg was missing from the hometown baseball team but looked forward to his starring on the local football team

instance, you'd hear sentences like, "Where the fuck did

come fall.

that fucker put the fucking whore of a cocksucker of an

Whenever I had the chance, I would sketch my bush

axe?" Such passages were so common as to be not worth

colleagues or a bit of landscape in pencil and watercolours.

recording. But I did get some good stuff from old Bill

I also tried taking down, in longhand, some of the talk

Gouge, an old-timer who joined our party for a few weeks.

around the fire at the end of the day. The vocabulary was

He was ever ready to share the observations and

rough, at least by the standards that prevailed then, when

experiences of his life with anyone who would listen, as in

any woman who used four-letter words was considered

the following verbatim example:

loose if not a whore. We considered it robustly male to use

"Well, it's like this. There are some men who will keep

every scatological, blasphemous, and erotic word in the

things hid. Others is more open. Some men, if they

English and French languages, words that were totally

catched a man with their wife, it's according to humanity.

taboo in mixed company. Strangely, the result of using this

If I thought my wife was prone and she said I wasn't

unlimited vocabulary was to limit personal expression. For

suited to her, I'd shake hands and call her a lady.

95

Daylight in the Swamp "Now I seen an instance—'twas in an apartment

crew had stopped to pick up a French lad whose father

house—they thought I was off to work and this couple. I

had abandoned him, hopelessly drunk, to walk home.

know there was a quarrel and he cast up that he screwed

The truck was already packed to the straining point and

her before he married her. He was talkin' quite plain. How,

soon began reeking to high heaven with digestive gases.

in instance like that? What are you goin' to do? Does your

The lad became heartily unwelcome and the crew began

wife have to go without because you're down and out?

to chorus: "Stop the truck. Throw the bugger out!"

"Take for instance there's some that's got a hot box

The lad started to cry and clung affectionately to one

eating the side of their leg out. There's others closely

after another of the crew until they all roared in unison,

attached and you'd think nothing would keep them apart.

"For Christ's sake, throw the bastard out!" But, as it

And a couple of years later. You don't know !"

happened, Alf the cook was currently in negotiations for

When we got out to Kapuskasing near the end of that summer, it was time to let the students go and re-align

a closer acquaintance with the boy's sister and he forced the driver to carry the lad to his destination.

the parties. I had to remain in the base camp with a

The end of summer was now drawing near and we

nasty cold but the rest of the crew took off for town on

had one more township, Ebbs, to clean up. While

the GSC truck to begin a frantic search for female

McBrien's crew was nearly intact, we would have to

company before returning to the bush later that night.

reorganize to finish Ebbs with maximum efficiency. But

When they got back, everyone was drunk and someone

first we would have to ascend Shetland Creek, relaying

shoved a bottle into my hands. The contents were sheer

our supplies by canoe and packing as one, big team.

rotgut and one searing swallow was enough for me.

What followed was some of the bitchiest travel of the

Then the stories began.

entire season.

Jack Hegg, for instance, reported his attraction to a

For as much as a half mile at a time, the creek trickled

passing skirt. He had introduced himself with the loaded

through boulders that littered its bed. We'd come to a

question, "Excuse me. Can you tell me where Pine

navigable stretch, put the canoe in the water again, turn a

Street is?" The meaning, cryptic only to the uninitiated,

bend and find more boulders. Or the water would be

was that he wanted to "get up into the tall timbers". "Are

shallow, and we'd push, pole, and drag our way along.

you trying to be fresh," she had apparently asked. "No.

Finally, we packed all our gear and supplies to carry them

Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, looking his freshest.

along a series of portages, alternately pushing and

And off they disappeared toward the park.

paddling the canoe, as before.

On their way back to base camp in the GSC truck, the

But we had our reward. How strange to find that the

96

Nama Creek Falls, 1945 28 x 23 inches, oil on canvas From the collection of A.K. Dewdney

Bill Robinson, 1933 6 x 7V2 inches, water colour on paper From the collection of The John Gordon Home

Gull Lake, 1940 1672 x IPA inches, oil on masonite board From the collection of Irene Dewdney

Whitefish Falls — sketch, 1943 17x12 inches, oil on masonite board From the Christopher Dewdney collection

Rackety Falls, 1942 2574 x 197i inches, oil on masonite board From the collection of Donner Dewdney

Wabuskane Lake, 1941 307s x 26 inches, oil on canvas From the collection of Irene Dewdney

Rock, Water & Tree, 1949 35 x 53 inches, oil on canvas From the collection of Irene Dewdney

Gull Lake Point, 1942 13Vz x 11 inches, oil on masonite board From the collection of Calla Dewdney

Bush Camp, c. 1935 9[/2 x 6 inches, water colour on paper From the collection of A.K.Dewdney

Lac Seul Church, 1953 10x7 inches, water colour and ink on paper t From the collection of Marilyn Conklin -

Wabuskane Lake Study, 1957 12'/2 x 11 inches, oil on masonite board From the collection of A.K. Dewdney

Bill Goudge, 1945 16 x 20 inches, oil on masonite board From the collection of Donner Dewdney

Standing Antelope, 1965 15 x 24 inches, water colour on paper From the collection of Donner Dewdney

Rackety Falls, c. 1943 25 x 19 inches, oil on masonite board From the collection of Donner Dewdney

Precambrian Shore, 1953 30V2 x 26*/2 inches, oil on masonite board From the collection of Donner Dewdney

Windy Shore, Gull Lake, c. 1950 35 x 25 inches, oil on masonite board From the collection of Donner Dewdney

§ Daylight in the Swamp §

Figure 24, Bush landscape, 1935

Figure 25, T r a p p e r ' s cabin, 1935

stream widened and deepened as we emerged from bush

older and two younger brothers. On this occasion,

and boulders. It opened out to swamp and muskeg with

however, I was falling behind, yelling to the others to

clearly defined shores and still, deep water. I recall how

"wait up" as I heard them fading into the distance. Trying

shocked I was to sound the depths with my paddle,

to run only made it worse. I would run and fall, run and

immersing its entire length and a good portion of my

fall again, pestered by flies, sweating in the heat and just

arm to feel no bottom at all. It soon became apparent that

about ready to cry with the frustration of it all.

our course meandered through a lake in the process of

I had just fallen again when I heard Mark's voice right

reclamation. Vegetation, some of it a floating grass, grew

beside me with some sort of irritating witticism. I rarely

out from the shores.

lose my temper, even vocally, but my reaction on this

Our final stretch to the Township corner took us

occasion was sheer rage. I swung my axe viciously at his

through a cedar swamp. Priding myself as a packer, I

nearest leg. I don't know whether I misjudged the

always loaded up a little more heavily than the others and

distance or unconsciously managed to miss. But it was

could normally keep up. Here, though, the footing was so

enough to turn Mark as white as a sheet. He knew that I

treacherous that I kept snagging my feet in dead cedars to

always kept my axe razor sharp. He might not have bled

fall, pack, pails, axe, and all.

to death during the seventy-two hour trip back to

My traverse mate, Mark, was an expert at teasing.

Kapuskasing, he would have been lame for life. Mark told

Usually I could handle this, having grown up with two

no one about the incident. Strangely, it not only ended

97

Daylight in the Swamp

Figure 26.

S u r v e y Camp, 1935

the teasing entirely, it brought us closer together.

frenzy. Younger environmentalists may need reminding

If the axe was a dangerous weapon, it was also the

that in those days no one could conceive of the ruthless

focus of considerable horseplay during rest periods.

exploitation of the forest resources that would follow.

Reviewing the chief's instructions one lazy Sunday

Trees simply replaced trees ad infinitum. No doubt we

afternoon, someone quoted: " . . . considerable ingenuity

also lived in the shadow of pioneer times, when the forest

must be exercised in locating outcrops, such as climbing

was an adversary to be cleared for highways and farms. In

tall trees and picking out ridges . .." The reading inspired

short, a tree-felling contest in the context of 1930s

Jack to exercise enough ingenuity to climb a small spruce

Ontario was simply good, clean fun!

in the muskeg nearby. No sooner had he reached the top

It was Mark who started it. Pointing to a tall poplar, he

than Mark rushed over with his axe. It took him only

announced that when it fell, it would take two others with

three strokes to bring Jack crashing to the ground for a

it. An experienced axeman always cuts a tree so that it

soft but wet landing in the sphagnum.

falls all the way to the ground. If it gets hung up on a

In another instance, while camped in a grove of tall

neighbouring tree, he's got an embarrassing "jackpot".

aspen poplars, we descended into a mad tree-felling

Mark was pretty good with his axe so we watched as it bit

98

Daylight in the Swamp through the ten-inch trunk of the poplar. It swayed, then toppled, crashing onto two slim birches exactly where he'd wanted it to. The birches bent until we were sure they d break, but they held. "Caw! Caw!" Old Bill crowed in appropriate response to the jackpot. A little flustered, Mark chopped out a big length from the poplar but the butt fell the wrong way to a chorus of caws. Then we all got the fever and ran amok with axes among the spruces, birches and poplars. A contest broke out. Who could fell the biggest tree with the fewest strokes? Young Bill, our sub-party leader, stepped up to a big tree, claiming that he could bring her down with twenty strokes. The first stroke bit in, true and strong. The second went astray. The third stroke took out the chip. By thirteen strokes, he had a deep notch on the falling side. Then he went around the tree and began the big notch on

Figure 27, Bill Goudge, Axeman, 1935

the other side. We counted his strokes. Bill was beginning

young spruce bent under the impact, but held.

to sweat. Two strokes left. We all turned our eyes to the

Apart from such interludes, it was one traverse after

top of the tree. The nineteenth stroke set it quivering. Bill

another, most often with Mark as my traverse-mate, but

stopped, looked up. then inspected the trunk. Then he

sometimes with others. The traverses continued day after

walked around to examine the other side of the tree with

day, in almost any kind of weather. They lasted through

a calculating eye. He tested the wind.

the summer and fall into October. Bill Goudge (Old

Then, placing himself as carefully as a golfer on a critical

Bill) went with me on one traverse that looked like an

putt, legs apart, back straight, he drew his axe back like a

easy nine miles on the map. The first mile and a half

baseball bat. Whack! The tree quivered and shook, the top

took us along the range line game trail. As soon as we

swayed uncertainly, then slowly began to lean to the north.

reached the lot post to turn north, Bill sat down for a

"Timber!" Bill's cry was triumphant.

smoke. A mile further on we came to a wide, deep

"Caw! Caw! Caw!" Old Bill crowed as a thicket of

creek. It seemed to me that a nearby tree would bridge

99

• Daylight in the Swamp • the creek if I felled it the right way. Old Bill doubted it

cooked-up map. I only had to recall the faulty map that

so I rashly bet him a box of cigars. The tree fell twenty

got me into such trouble on the way to Millidge during

feet short so we set out a mile or so upstream only to

my Lac Seul days.

find that it was still too wide and deep to cross. But a

But Bill had a good heart. When we paused later to

little further we came to a fork where a deadfall

finish up our lunch, he insisted on me taking the last

spanned the wider branch.

sandwich. "Them as is young needs the food", he said. He

It was noon so we stopped to eat a sandwich and

rambled on. For the seventh time he informed me that

consider our situation. With a definite lack of enthusiasm

his sons had taken in seventy-one tons of hay last

Bill agreed that we'd cross there and do as much of the

summer. After this job, he had another waiting for him

traverse as we had time for. He couldn't understand why I

"doin' assessment work". He went on to confide that Carl,

didn't just "fix up" the notes to show a completed

our team leader, "dasn't say a thing to me because me an'

traverse. He averred that the "boys do it all the time". But

Paul (Paul Leduc, then Ontario Minister of Mines) is just

I was reluctant to mislead some future traveller with a

like that". He crossed two fingers.

Figure 28.

Three Pre-Cambrians, 1935

100

• Daylight in the Swamp • As the summer progressed, my skill with compass and

firefighting must be like. Mark and I observed the other

pace meter progressed apace. On sunny days I could

fire on our most westerly traverse, one that brought us

dispense with the compass, allowing for the changing

within sight of the Algoma Central Line that ran from

shadows as the sun moved west. Even after skirting wide

Hearst to Sault Ste Marie. As we neared the end of our lot

swamps or impassable fire slash I was able to return to

line, we smelled smoke, then came out upon an area

my line more or less accurately. As evidence of this skill, I

where the moss was smouldering away without a single

could cite the difficulties that Mark and I encountered

flame visible. Under the right conditions, this area could

one day. We came to one diversion after another,

generate a raging fire. But there was nothing we could do.

culminating in a muskeg swamp from which we finally

We would have had to roll back all the peat, all the rotting

emerged near the end of the day. But had we crossed the

logs in the whole area, snuffing every single coal. Yet,

township line or not? We depended on the line to get

that's what fire crews must do at the end of a fire. Not one

back to our base camp. Mark went ahead to look but he'd

spark must remain.

hardly been gone for a minute when I excitedly called

In those days, kickers got crews to some fires and

him back. "Look," I said, shaking with incredulity. I

aircraft had already come into limited use. But a mere

pointed to the rotting grey lot post that I had just

decade earlier, it was the hardy rangers of the Ontario

spotted— exactly between my feet!

Forestry Branch (later Lands and Forests, now Natural

As fall approached, the weather became more and

Resources) who paddled to fires. They brought portable

more erratic. Showers alternated with sunshine. Fifteen

pumps, picks, shovels and grub, packing them over

minutes of slogging through the wet bush was enough to

portages. These travel methods had one side benefit for

soak you through to the skin. Rainwear? Try sweating

canoeists in those days: The rangers kept all the portages

under a waterproof jacket. It's an even better way of

and trails in their area beautifully serviceable.

getting soaked. Waterproof boots? We all wore heavy

Thankfully, the fire we witnessed on our traverse was

socks and calf-length elkhide boots that kept your feet

not likely to develop into a conflagration. It was

dry until the first time you forded a stream or sank to

September and the fire season had almost ended. The

your hips in soft muskeg.

days were rapidly shortening, morning dews were heavier,

Fires were rare in that country. We encountered only

and the first snows, in that part of the country, were not

two. One blazed by the roadside with nowhere to go but

long off. By the same token, traversing grew into a real

into a ploughed field. Nevertheless, I was amazed at the

test of endurance in those fall days.

heat that it threw off and got a new appreciation of what 101

When the students left for school at the end of

• Daylight in the Swamp • September, we re-organized our crews. At the same time,

remember the last name of Dave, the diminutive French-

a geologist named Carl Collins needed another man for a

Canadian cook. But his unfailing sense of humour, his

party that was going up the Missinaibi to Magladery

skill with the harmonica, his sheer joie de vivre whatever

township. Three men in our own party were eligible:

the circumstances, provided welcome relief from the

Mark, Nells Timmerman, and I. None of us was

morose Collins. Fortunately, Dave joined our sub-party

particularly anxious to join the new crew since here, in

and I was to see Collins only at tolerably spaced intervals.

McGowan township, we found ourselves in the "lap of

Perhaps what the crew found most intolerable was the

luxury", relatively speaking. But Collins' party was

way Collins loaded up everyone but himself as we moved

scheduled to leave the very next day so Mark produced

the base camp inland. It seemed that a man named

three pennies: "Odd man wins." We all tossed our

George, who at five feet was even smaller than Dave the

pennies. With sinking heart I stared at the other two

cook, was picked on to pack the heaviest loads. On one

pennies. They matched and I was the odd man out.

occasion I had an attack of what was probably stomach

Collins's party would travel away up the Missinaibi

flu. Since I shared Collins's tent, he was certainly aware of

River past the mouth of Shetland Creek. Then they would pack the supplies and gear inland, first five miles along

Figure 29. Dave, 1935

the south township line of Magladery, then six miles along its east boundary. Setting out the next morning with nine strangers, I had the only strong premonition I've ever experienced. I knew that I would never come back! Perhaps it was my disappointment, perhaps it was knowing that we were heading for some bitchy country. I was simply certain, as we made our way up one stony stretch after another, that I would never come out of the bush alive. It was obvious from the start not only that Collins was heartily disliked by the rest of the crew but that he hated his job, hated the bush, and was in an almost constant state of depression. Except for Collins, I have no record of any surnames on that trip. For example, I don't

102

Daylight in the Swamp The fall weather gave us alternating days of rain and sun. One shower would drench the bush so a five-minute walk would soak your clothes. Then, when we were barely dry, another shower would come. Worst of all, and quite new for me, was the early snow that numbed feet and hands. It melted into ice water that seeped into our boot tops. When we camped on swampy ground, there was no sitting around the fire at night. Instead, we stood before a fierce, drying fire, rotating ourselves as the steam rose from our clothes. If we stood too long in one position the steam would scald our legs. At night we were beset by the leg cramps and backaches that came of too much hard slogging and too little sleep. We might have endured all this, even joked about it, Figure 30, Dave, 1935

had we known that we'd ever get out of this endless

my vomiting and gave me the day off, to rest at the base

nightmare of drudgery. Or if we had a leader who shared

camp. But a few days later, when Bill and George returned

it with us or offered a cheerful countenance instead of the

from a traverse, George had come down with the same

gloom he shed whenever he appeared. Times have

complaint, as sick as a dog. Collins let him sit out the next

changed. I doubt whether today's students could have

traverse but nevertheless sent him and Bill in to us with

taken that sort of punishment. But this was the middle of

two packs of supplies that we didn't even need!

the great depression and the nine-hundred students like

As September went by, conditions on the trail

me were lucky to have been chosen from among the five-

worsened. We worked in terrain that offered the full range

thousand applicants. In fact, everyone in our party was

of ugly going: swamp cedars that tore our pant legs to

lucky to have jobs.

shreds, alder swamp with its treacherous footing, spruce

Nevertheless, mutiny was imminent. One day during a

swamp, fire slash with prone trunks cleverly concealed

freak snowstorm we had holed up in a trapper's cabin, all

beneath dense second growth. And muskeg, rubbery

bitching for the twentieth time, when I suggested that we

underfoot, like dry sand, until your leg plunges thigh-

should each write down our own idea of what to do. I

deep into sucking black muck that saps all your strength.

have kept those scraps of paper to this day. They all seem

103

• Daylight in the Swamp • reasonable, agreeing that we should "pull stakes". Dave

working east of Kapuskasing. So I was totally unprepared,

put it best: "I think the most logical thing to do would be

when we stopped at a little station, to see a familiar GSC

to wait until this snowstorm is over and then go out to

truck standing by. And there beside it, incredibly, none

the river."

other than McBrien, Nell, Mark and the others. I raced to

In my final letter of the season to Irene I wrote, "It is

the open end of my car to wave. They all waved back. But

ceasing to be a comfort that my pay is accumulating: This

the train had already started up and soon they were out

life is draining the spirits out of me—it's so useless. Its

of sight. So I was utterly surprised at the next stop when

disciplinary value is a thing of the past. Now I have to

who should come aboard but Nell. "Quick! Mark and the

fight against a sort of benumbing effect... It's an effort to

rest are out back!" Again the train was starting up. And

sit down and sketch . . . and even writing to you I am

there was Mark, racing up the track toward me.

haunted with the feeling that you don't exist except as a beautiful dream ..."

The train gathered speed and Nell dropped off. Mark made a final sprint, reaching out with his hand. I grasped

Early in October, the orders finally came out of

it and held on until the train finally wrenched us apart.

Kapuskasing. We were to come out! That morning, our

Mark stood waving in the middle of the track. I

tent was so stiff from frozen rain that we had to bend it

continued to wave back, my eyes growing wet with tears,

every whichway to get it more or less folded. Finally, we

until Mark receded into the vanishing point of the twin

had to jump on it to pack it into the canoe. When we got

rails. Returning to my seat, I was choked with the feeling

out to the Missinaibi, the river had changed completely.

of loss. We had forged a bond that was far more

Instead of the endless terraces of tomb-like boulders,

meaningful to me than I realized.

with only a few stretches of navigable water, it had

I was never again to see Mark Lonergan. But I heard

become a rushing torrent, fed by the heavy rains and

his voice eleven years later, when my first novel, Wind

rain-melted snows.

Without Rain, came out. He called from his home town

At Mattice we were paid off and given back the clothes we had left at the headquarters. Now we looked respectable even though none of us had yet enjoyed the

of Buckingham, Quebec, to congratulate me. As the old saying goes, shared vicissitudes separate the men from the boys. Mark was a man.

luxury of a bath. I boarded the train for Toronto, little suspecting that I was about to experience an incident that would haunt me for the rest of my life. I knew that my old party, Stew McBrien's, was still

104

Daylight in the Swamp

Figure 31. Mark Lonergan, 1935,,

105

Figure 32,

Map showing part canoe trip made by Selwyn and Irene Dewdney, 1937

chapter nine

Bush

Honeymoon

Day began early (about 1 a. raj with a visit from Maclean and Doc. Bancroft had locked the boathouse door. Maclean leaned gently against it and smashed it to fragments. From the honeymoon journal, Hawk Lake, Ontario The Year of Our Lord 1936 was a momentous one. That fall, on October the third, Irene and I were married by no less a person than my father. Besides presiding at my marriage, he had baptised and confirmed me. He was also to baptise three of our four sons before his death in 1945. Musing on where it all began, I could say it started during the College of Art summer school in Port Hope in 1932 when I met Irene. Or did it begin when a Swedish silk merchant by the name of Anderson married a Chinese lady to have a daughter named Ingeborg? It was Irene's friend "Inky" Anderson, a fellow member of the KW sketch club, who talked Irene into taking a couple of weeks off to attend the Port Hope summer school. 107

Figure 33. Christmas card made by S e l w y n Dewdney, 1937

• Daylight in the Swamp • It was here that I met the woman I would share my life

paddle, and all the camping gear we needed. The last

with but, during the next four years, we saw each other only

included two items that I had borrowed more or less

on weekends. I had to complete my studies at the Ontario

permanently from Dad: the eiderdown sleeping robe and

College of Art, then at the Ontario College of Education, as

the six-by-six wedge tent of Egyptian cotton, the same

well as a stint of high-school teaching in Owen Sound.

robe and "silk tent" that Dad and I had used on the trip to

In the summer of 1934, however, Irene came to

Big Trout Lake.

Kenora for a visit. During the visit, Irene and I

Irene and I were off for Red Lake by a circuitous route

accompanied my brother Albert and his girl, Margaret, on

that would cover five hundred miles. We would make

a three-day canoe excursion to Hazel Island on Lake of

fifty-one portages, average seventeen miles a day, see fifty-

the Woods. On the way home, we became thoroughly lost

three deer and a dozen moose. On the other hand, we

as evening turned to night. Just when I figured we'd have

would paddle for three and a a half days on the English

to spend the night under the stars, we spied the lights of a

River without seeing a single other human being. Our

commercial fishing camp twinkling from afar. Here we

canoe was rented, a Rice Lake type, fifteen feet long,

found two warm beds graciously offered by the staff,

canvas covered, and with an aluminum nose.

Sleeping in the same bed was not then the casual affair it

We started away from the boathouse in calm water,

seems to be these days. So Irene turned around her

heading for our first landmark, Devil's Gap, with just

"engagement" ring, a Chinese ruby I'd bought for $17, to

enough freeboard to handle the chop that soon

make it look like a wedding ring. This took care of any

developed as we came to open water. Our first portage,

scruples our host might have had.

still several miles off, would take us into Blindfold Lake.

Irene took to the canoe with such enthusiasm that she

As we got out in the stretch of lake past Bare Point, the

was eager for more. But it was not until the summer of

water became too rough for comfort. Entering less

1937 that we had the time or money for something more

familiar water a few miles on, I drew out the first sheet

ambitious. We had a whole month clear. Why not take a

of our route map to see whether we were close to the

real trip, from Kenora to Red Lake and back again? It

Blindfold Lake portage. I had carefully prepared these

would be the ultimate honeymoon.

map sheets by cutting up a much larger map of

According to the journal I kept then, it was a windy

northwestern Ontario, based in part on recent aerial

morning on July 23rd that we embarked from the family

surveys. Nearly all the portages were shown, along with

boathouse on Kenora Bay, across from the main town. We

the height of every falls. I pasted each of the sections

had two weeks of supplies loaded into the canoe, an extra

covering our route onto a compact, oily cardboard back.

108

Daylight in the Swamp • Out on the choppy stretch, I no sooner turned the

later become the Trans Canada Highway. We climbed the

first map right side up to look at it, when the wind

embankment, crossed the road, and found ourselves on

whipped it out of my hands. I watched helplessly as it

the portage, a well-beaten track through a stand of

slid into the lake a mere foot beyond my paddle's reach. I

jackpine. Irene was ahead with a load, I followed with the

had a small backup map, but we came ashore anyway at

canoe. Then I came up to her, standing still. "Look!" she

an oldtimer's cabin to check on our whereabouts. It turned out that we'd overshot the outlet to Blindfold Lake by a couple of miles. The lake was well-named. Two steep, rocky shores overlapped each other, hiding the entrance until we were practically on top of it. Here we came to a small falls with some pictographs above them. As a youth in Kenora, I had been to Blindfold Lake a couple of times and I knew of the "Indian paintings" on the rock just above the little falls. When Irene and I made the lift-over of twenty feet or so, we gave the site only a passing glance. Our attentions had been caught by an osprey's nest near a high rock some fifty yards further along the shore. I made a pencil sketch, we stopped for a quick supper, then moved on. A westerly breeze gave me the idea for a sail. We rigged one

Figure 34. Blindfold Lake, 1937

and let the wind take us to the mouth of Rushing River. The water here flowed smoothly past reed-lined shores.

whispered. There, standing in our path, was a beautiful

But beside the three-hundred-yard portage that followed,

whitetail doe. She turned her head to regard us, more

we discovered why the river was called Rushing. Here

with dignity than concern, then ambled into the bush.

began that part of the route I had marked out on my maps but had never traveled. We paddled a half mile stretch of placid river, then came to a second rapids—and a gravel road that would 109

The portage came out on the shore of Dogtooth Lake where we had a swim and a feast of fresh pickerel donated by a party of fishermen below Medicine Rock Falls. On our second day out from Kenora, we portaged

• Daylight in the Swamp • into Hawk Lake. The CPR ran along the north shore of

sand before us, propped up on one elbow. As Irene

the lake, which gave its name to a whistle stop on the

stepped out of the boat and approached him, he greeted

lake, a more or less typical northern "mushroom village."

her by name, took her hand and, instead of shaking it,

There was a trading post, some bungalows, and a rock

pulled her down on the sand to bestow a hearty

crushing plant. As I would learn later that afternoon, all

welcoming kiss. Observing this from the boat, I began to

the CPR track ballast from Fort William to Winnipeg

bridle at this handling of my girl. I jumped out to

came from that plant. Moreover, the plant was owned by

confront the man. He got to his feet then, a towering

one Harry MacLean.

presence built, as they say in the North, like a brick

Two or three days before Irene and I set out, a brand

shithouse. Out of his MacLean plaid bush shirt came a

new float plane had flown into Kenora. Sleek and

great ham of a hand to envelop mine. He greeted us as

streamlined, it was as neat a floatplane as I've ever seen. I

"Vikings" and said that he was going to fly us up to Great

didn't realize it at the time, but it belonged to Harry

Bear Lake for reasons that are still not clear to me.

MacLean, a well-known, hard-drinking mining magnate

Later in the afternoon, we departed in boats for Hawk

of mountainous proportions. It was Harry MacLean who

Lake station, the town that MacLean virtually owned. The

built the power plant at Abitibi Falls. It was Harry

party in the last boat to leave had the misfortune to

MacLean who used to throw ten-dollar bills from his

neglect taking MacLean aboard. They were called back

Toronto hotel room window, just for amusement.

with, "One of you bastards better come and get me if you

We were about two miles from the track when a squall

want to keep your balls!"

came up, forcing Irene and I to take shelter in a bay until

The details of the next twelve hours would need

it blew over. In the middle of this, a power launch hove

another whole chapter. Suffice it to say that MacLean put

into view, slowing so that its occupants could inquire,

us up as his guests in the bedroom over his boathouse.

"Are you the Dufeys from Kenora?" I said we probably

His secretary, a man named Bancroft, slept on a cot in a

were. "Well, Harry MacLean is expecting you. He's

screened-in balcony next to our bedroom,

throwing a party over at the beach."

Around one o'clock in the morning, we were just

This sounded interesting so we tied our canoe to the

falling asleep when we heard MacLean's stentorian voice

launch and climbed aboard. There were at least twenty

just outside the boathouse: "Who the hell locked this

people picknicking on the beach when we came ashore,

bloody door?" We could hear Bancroft jump out of his

obviously a drinking party. Unmistakeably the centre of

cot to scurry to our room. "Lock your door!" His voice

the group, a great and conspicuous figure lolled on the

shook, as did the boathouse itself when MacLean 110

• Daylight in the Swamp • pounded on the outside door. Then came the sound of

and dig out the cook to make us a real feed of flapjacks."

Bancroft running down the stairs. "I'm coming ..." There

To match Harry MacLean, pancake for pancake, at four

was a great crash of breaking glass and splintering wood

o'clock in the morning was perhaps the most heroic act of

as MacLean leaned on the door, knocking it flat. The man

my life. Back at long last to the boathouse, I awoke Irene

was clearly under the influence. Bancroft pleaded with

with the memorable words, "Let's get the hell out of here!"

him, offering his resignation and imploring his boss to go

Only at ten the next morning did MacLean give the

no further.

order to let his "Vikings" continue their journey. A truck

"Are you trying to tell me I can't come into my own

took us over the portage out of Hawk Lake. Three lakes

boathouse any time of the day—or NIGHT?" He roared.

and one portage later found us sweating our way up a

"See those gasoline drums? Who's going to stop me from

narrow little creek. It was a nightmare of twisting

dumping out the gas and putting a match to the whole

through alders, paddling, pushing, pulling ourselves

Goddamned building?"

under fallen trees, and chopping through deadfall. When

By this time, Irene was sitting up in bed, shaking.

we finally reached the next lake, Linklater, we were dog-

With heroic courage I went out to meet MacLean as he

tired. We immediately made a camp on the shore and

came up the stairs. He stopped to explain that he'd just

tasted the sweetness of utter relaxation.

come up to see if we'd like to fly up to Great Bear Lake

The next day dawned grey. Disregarding the rain, we

to see a construction job he had going. Apparently, he

set out. On our first portage we found our reward for

took us for a pair of Vikings because he kept referring to

such doggedness, a fabulous field of wild strawberries. By

us as such. Suddenly he said, "Do you like steak?" "Sure",

the time we reached Bush Lake, the rain had let up, but

I said. "All right. We'll go over to my shack and have my

now we confronted a new problem: My map showed no

nurse cook us up a couple." His nurse, whom he

outlet! How had the aerial survey missed it?

apparently took everywhere with him to keep an eye on

Irene and I searched the shore for nearly an hour

his heart condition, came bleary-eyed out of her room,

until we finally found the outlet, a vertical thirty-foot

then cooked two enormous steaks. I managed to

falls! The portage was also missing from the map.

consume mine as if it were a routine midnight snack.

Another hour and we found it, too, but the day was too

When MacLean had finished his steak, the nurse got

far advanced to continue so we made our camp for the

him to lie down for a while. I was attempting to calm

night beside a trapper's cabin. That night we heard

him down and speak soothingly, when he swung his

mysterious noises from the cabin, but nothing in the

mighty legs out of bed. "Let's go down to the cookhouse

wilderness could alarm Irene after Hawk Lake and Harry

111

• Daylight in the Swamp • Maclean. We got up to investigate, only to encounter a

ashore? This was a curious illusion but, even more

porcupine emerging from the cabin.

curiously, I began to have it myself. Now we could hear

The next morning found us entering Canyon Lake via

the roar of the falls ahead of us, amplified by the gorge

a stream that passed under the railroad tracks through a

they fell through. We went ashore as a precaution, so that

culvert which, by hunching down, we followed. Emerging I could scout ahead. Here was the real Canyon River, a from the culvert, we were greeted by a vigorous west wind

rushing torrent smashing its way through huge boulders

that blew down the long, narrow lake from behind. The

that had fallen from a hundred and fifty foot cliff on one

waves got bigger, the further we went down the long

side of the gorge. Needless to say, we made our portage

stretch. With relief, we came to the railway stop at

on the other side. After several more portages, we camped

Canyon, where we went ashore.

for the night.

The entire population of Canyon, three women, four

The next morning we found ourselves paddling along

children, and a few men, had turned out to greet the local

as placid a stream as you could hope for, one with a sandy

train, due through shortly. Irene and I had just enough

bottom. Something prompted me to put out a line with a

time to dash off a few letters before the train arrived. Our

spinner on it. I often did this, when the opportunity

letters went straight into the mail car and here someone

arose. You never knew. Almost immediately I hooked a

handed down letters and parcels for the locals,

jackfish so huge that I couldn't be sure it wasn't a

exchanging greetings and gossip.

maskinonge. It came in quite docilely, as pike will

Back in the canoe again, we continued east up Canyon

sometimes do and, just as I was deciding whether to lift it

Lake. It was a perfect day for dog flies, with a hot sun and

out or stun it in the water, Irene whispered. "Look!

gusty wind. The little ankle-biters got busy nipping

There's a moose!" It was a female. She let us get quite

through our bush socks while we got quite skillful at

close, then waded majestically around a bend to reveal a

slaying them, thirty-six by our count. At last we reached

beautiful little calf. After a few moments, they went

Outlet Bay where we turned north to head for the mouth

calmly off together into the muskeg.

of the Canyon River.

Only then did I remember my fish. It was much too

So far, we had portaged past any fast water, so Irene

big to eat all of, but we decided to have some steaks from

had no experience to rely on. But she had seen the map,

it that evening. One more short portage and we found

knew that we were approaching a substantial falls, and

ourselves on the Wabigoon ("Flower" in Ojibway) River.

soon remarked that the river seemed to be slanting

There, at the first portage we came to, we paused for a

downwards. Wouldn't we be caught unless we went

breather and I painted my best water colour ever. The 112

Daylight in the Swamp

Figure 35. Rapids on the Wabigoon River, 1937

river poured over the smooth ledge of bedrock in a sleek,

grew colder, the mosquitos disappeared, and we fell into a

glassy sheet, curving down to break into white water

deep, untroubled sleep.

below. We could have shot this little fall successfully after

I dislike those who sermonize but indulge me a

lightening the canoe, but I have always followed the

moment: When we entered the Wabigoon River for the

native preference of portaging over perishing.

first time on our honeymoon trip in 1937 we found a

Too many experienced canoeists have met their end in

beautifully clear stream that urged you to dip in a cup. We

almost trivial accidents. I think, for example, of Blair

had no inkling then that in 1957 we would be driving out

Eraser who traversed a section of the old Northwest fur

of Dryden, the pulp and paper town on the Trans Canada

route with some canoeing colleagues from Ottawa. A

Highway, to cross that same river. We would view with

seasoned canoeman, Fraser nevertheless drowned in a

horror the dirty brown scum on its surface, scarcely

rapids. I might also cite the strange affair of Tom

needing the nearby sign: POLLUTED WATER

Thomson, who somehow drowned in an open lake.

Only a few years later, the troubles of the Ojibway at

Perhaps he capsized and was killed by hypothermia, a

nearby Grassy Narrows and White Dog would eclipse even

little known hazard of some northern lakes, where icy

these concerns. Dependent on the summer supply of fish

temperatures can remain well into June.

from the river, these native people would unwittingly take

The sun set on our camp at Wabigoon Falls. The air

in damaging doses of mercury. No voice in our wilderness,

was warm and the night was clear, so we decided to sleep

it seems, will ever still the need for resources, the greed for

under the stars in spite of the friendly mosquitos. Later, it

wealth and the misery that it so often creates.

113

• Daylight in the Swamp • Next day we left the mouth of the lovely Wabigoon

our slab of bacon. Nevertheless, Irene managed a culinary

and paddled north on the English River. We had now

masterpiece that I will never forget: German style potato

entered the part of Canada which, in older maps, lay not

pancakes. She grated raw potatoes on the bottom of a tin

in Ontario, but in the Northwest Territories. We followed

can that I had punched full of nail holes for the purpose.

the English River for almost three days without seeing a

Besides the raw potatoes, Irene used only eggs, salt, and a

single human. Then, on the third day, we spied a canoe.

little flour. Fried in butter, the edges of the pancakes took

The occupants paddled to a nearby island to wait there

on a crispness that contrasted with the solid German

for us. They turned out to be two Ojibway men on their

substance of their middles. Slathered with butter, they

way to Grassy Narrows with a deer carcass in a canoe.

were irresistible!

From their limited English, we understood that the rest of

The first of August found us camped on a small island

the band was down near Farland on the C.N.R., picking

halfway across another enlargement of the English River

berries. They also seemed worried about the portage

called Wilcox Lake. We had crossed to the island in a dead

ahead of us at Maynard Falls.

calm. The glassy water doubled the shores and provided a

We quickly forgot these concerns in the continuing

clear sky for us to paddle across, suspended in space. By

panorama of wildlife, but when we got to Maynard Falls,

night, however, the weather had clouded over and it

we remembered the hunters' warnings. Nothing seemed

rained spasmodically, only to let up in the morning. We

amiss so Irene took the first load over. She returend in a

rolled up the tent and, after a breakfast of Grapenuts and

minute. The trail was completely blocked by a deadfall.

coffee, packed up the canoe and were away.

The tangle looked just like the twister damage that had

Two arcs of blue now stretched across the sky, one

blocked the portage on Lac Seul in 1929. We explored the

directly over us and one far off to the southwest. In

barrier wearing light loads. We climbed, crawled and

between hung a distant curtain of rain that seemed to be

detoured until we reached the other side. But I didn't try

headed our way. For the time being, we roasted in the

to climb over the tangle as I had done on Lac Seul. That

sun's heat, so we paddled in the shade of the south shore

would risk breaking an arm, a leg or worse, a canoe. We

while keeping an eye on the weather to the west. A mile

cut a trail through and portaged the rest.

past Wilcox Lake, Irene spotted a deer, in Goose Lake

Going through the grub box that evening to figure out

another and, not long after that, she pointed out a big

supper, we discovered how hard the warm weather had

black cow moose that sauntered out of the water and into

been on our food supply. Mould was the enemy. It had

the bush.

spoiled two loaves of bread and had begun to creep over

By noon, the sky was growing massively black. We 114

• Daylight in the Swamp • went ashore and Irene made lunch while I put the canoe

their target. Finally, she took refuge in the tent and its

up on props, inverting, and stretching a tarp across it to

mosquito-proof curtain.

make a shelter. We had barely finished our mushroom

Clad in less penetrable clothing. I got the water boiling

soup, when the advancing curtain blotted out the far

but had to skim off a thick scum of drowning mosquitos

shore of the lake. Then she came! Wind and rain lashed

before I threw in the tea. It was then that a gentle rain

the lake. Thunder rumbled in the belly of the sky while

began to fall, spoiling our plans for an all-night paddle.

we, snug in our shelter, watched the show. When the

Pakwash, ten miles long and three to four miles wide,

storm had subsided into a steady rain, we played cards

had a reputation for treachery. As we put out from our

until the weather cleared.

campsite the next morning, a vigorous wind blew from

The next day, on Camping Lake, a minor gale whipped

the west and we had to fight hard to get to the western

the water into seas too rough for our heavily laden canoe.

shore, thereafter to stay in the lee most of our way up

When the wind dropped a bit, we set out and, in a couple

the lake.

of hours, late in the day, we reached the mouth of the

All the portages along the Chukuni were equipped

Chukuni River, the branch of the English that drains Red

with tracks and steam winches to pull over heavier boats,

Lake country. Here, we heard a dog bark and spied a man

like diesels and scows, that could never be carried past the

standing on a dock, our first human being in three and a

falls or had too deep a draft to navigate some of the

half days. Unfortunately, we had no time to be sociable.

shallower rapids. At the first of these portages, we met the

We wanted to reach the ten-mile stretch of Lake Pakwash

McLarens, a husband and wife team that operated the

by dark, then to travel its length during the calm night

winch. This was their fourth summer of running the

hours. But nature had other plans for us.

steam portage. In the winters, Mr. McLaren worked on

It was deep dusk by the time we reached Pakwash so

the road to Red Lake and cut wood to fuel the steam

we decided to stop, make a temporary camp for supper,

winch. When we confessed to Mrs. McLaren that we had

then press on up the lake. In the darkness we spied a

run out of bread, she invited us into her kitchen where we

sandy point of land, made for it, and beached the canoe.

greeted the aroma of two loaves a-baking. Mr. McLaren,

By the time we got a fire going, it was obvious that a

meanwhile, had me lift the canoe onto the railcar which

horde of hungry mosquitoes had been keeping a fast just

already held a barge to go over shortly. The ride was free

for our arrival. They savagely attacked Irene's bottom

and, by the time the canoe had been deposited at the

each time she bent over the fire—probably at the

other end, our bread was baked.

prospect of light cotton slacks stretched invitingly over 115

The remaining portages that day were not so easy, but

• Daylight in the Swamp • by dark we found ourselves at the bottom of a long

Here we found the temptations of civilization and we

stretch of open water. It looked perfect for the all-night

succumbed. We gorged ourselves on ice cream and cold

paddle of which I had dreamed since the beginning of the

drinks, then ran into Harvey and Les Sanderson, sons of

honeymoon. We stopped for a meal, then re-packed the

Canon Sanderson and known to me from Kenora days.

canoe so that one of us could sleep while the other

They inveigled us into attending the matinee at a local

paddled. It was a perfect night. We needed no compass

theatre which turned out to be a converted barn with

but the North Star. The water was as smooth as glass,

enough benches inside to accommodate some fifty patrons.

meteors would blaze briefly overhead and Irene went to

It was a good old cowboy film entitled Muss 'em Up I

sleep while owls hooted from distant shores.

Red Lake brought back memories of my Lac Seul days

Passing a point of land, I heard a crackling, rustling,

when I had paddled all the way up to hold the first

munching sound from the shore nearby, too much noise

Protestant service the town had experienced. I even

for anything but a moose. I awakened Irene and we

recalled for Irene the Sunday morning I went the rounds

paddled slowly toward the noise. When we shone the

to announce the service. One of my first calls was at the

flashlight in the direction of the sound, a beautiful cow

barber's shack. The door was locked but I could hear

moose stood in the light, unperturbed. The spell was only

someone inside. I made my announcement through what

broken when I said something to Irene. The cow lifted her

turned out to be a bedroom window: "There'll be a

majestic head with its wide ears, picked her way carefully

service at the hotel at eleven o'clock."

through a tangle of wood and bounded away into the dark

"Get the fucking hell out of here or I'll blow your

of the forest. We could hear her stop in the distance to

fucking head off," came the unmannerly response. This

stamp her foot and snort, letting us know in no uncertain

was followed by a woman's giggle. "Oh. S-s-sorry," I

terms just what she thought of the interruption.

stuttered.

Red Lake at last! Hot, tired and thirsty, paddling into a

Judging from our 1937 honeymoon visit, Red Lake

stiff wind, we saw the headframe of the Howey Mine over

had grown but hadn't changed much in other respects.

the hill. We passed Ojibway camps on either side, while

More than ever, it was a queer mixture of modern

the town gradually revealed itself. First came the log

civilization and the bush. Now a town of two or three

cabins of the early comers, the more recent frame

thousand people, owned and operated by the Howey

buildings, including three hotels, the Hudson's Bay Store,

Mine, it reeked of materialism. Two brothels ran full

warehouses and docks. Half a dozen float planes rode at

steam and nobody seemed to give a damn about

anchor in the bay.

anything. Its bay accommodated enough aircraft to set a

116

• Daylight in the Swamp • record for the largest numbers of takeoffs and landings in

English River route in reverse. Only one incident stands

North America, one every fifteen minutes on average. Its

out: The portage landing at Drowning Dam had a steep

dusty streets accommodated half a dozen trucks,

clay bank. We unloaded the canoe on a shelf of grass and

including a '38 Ford that belonged to Flin-Flon Annie,

rock, picked up our loads and started up the bank. Irene,

recently written up in Liberty Magazine.

carrying the bedroll and tent, went first. I followed with

During our two days in Red Lake, Irene and I stayed

the grub box and a top load that contained our paper,

with the Littlefords, enjoying the luxury of a real bed.

books, chess set, and so on. Almost at the very top of the

Reverend Littleford, whose first name I have forgotten,

bank, Irene slipped. The tent fell away, then the bedroll. I

was the local Anglican minister. I'll never forget his wife's

grabbed for the bedroll as it bounced by but lost my own

name: "Halcyon". It was appropriate.

load in the process. I managed to save the grub box after

The return to Kenora was no less various, gruelling

two tumbles but the rest went merrily into the river. In a

and rewarding than the trip to Red Lake had been. But it

trice I had the canoe into the water and got everything—

all seems a blur now and just the highlights seem worth

thoroughly soaked. Fortunately it was a good drying day.

mentioning. We left Red Lake in mid-afternoon only to

We left the English River behind to try an unfamiliar

be hailed a few miles out by two homesteaders who

route back to Kenora. We followed the Cedar River to

invited us to stay the night. They were Bob Kilgower, a

Anonymous Lake with its acres of wild rice, then further

thirty-year old unemployed engineer, and Wes Forsythe,

upstream to Wahbuskang Lake where we encountered a

who had been his boyhood friend in rural Manitoba. Wes,

brisk favouring wind. We went ashore where I found and

a burnt out prairie farmer, had brought his wife, a lean

cut two light spruce poles and rigged a sail in the

prairie woman. She was especially hospitable and seemed

Hudson's Bay manner. We sailed down the lake in fine

to us to be the source of her husband's courage in starting

style until the wind got so strong, we had to take the rig

up all over again with nothing more than the shirt on his

down. Here we found two wonderful camp sites that have

back. They had come in by tractor during the winter,

merged into one in my memory. I would revisit the lake

cleared fifteen acres, and had planted potatoes, beans and

many years later with our eldest son, Donner, only to

corn with an eye to the Red Lake market. But the soil was

discover how different the sites were. Ironically, it was

not responding and they were gloomy about the future,

here that we planned to conceive Donner under the pines,

the more because Bob's woman was not enchanted with

but he didn't appear until 1939.

country living. On the first leg of our return journey, we followed the 117

On the portage out of Cedar Lake, we ran into an odd couple, a lawyer and his wife from Cincinnati. The

• Daylight in the Swamp • wife was a thin woman with horn-rimmed glasses,

process. They watched intently as we zoomed down the

fisherman's hat wrapped in flowing black silk, a brown

chute into a sharp bend where the water piled high on the

sweater buttoned to the top, and corded breeches. The

left bank, cleared a huge boulder that jutted out of

lawyer was dressed in equally picturesque style. They

midstream, and went bounding on our merry way. To this

were accompanied by two guides one of whom, Art

day I carry the memory of the slope of water on that

Williams, I had known at Lac Seul. I didn't take them

bend. There's something distinctly unsettling about water

very seriously until they mentioned that they had spent

that slants.

their summers this way every year. They had been up to

The weather had been so fabulous throughout the trip

Lake St. Joe and half a dozen other places seeking respite

that we might have expected it would deny us the dash

from human contact but rarely finding it. The next day

for home. When we came to the formidable Dalles Rapids

we ran into a lone traveler who had once guided for the

on the Winnipeg River, it began to rain. Gamely, we

pair. He told us that the wife insisted that the guides

started out on the portage only to find a bewildering

make up a table for her to eat from at every stop, to

number of paths. We wandered into a clearing with a few

spread it with an oil-cloth, and to fold it in a special way

houses in it and realized we had wandered into a nearby

each time they broke camp.

reserve. Discouraged, we trudged back to the head of the

As we headed south we encountered more and more

portage and made a damp camp.

tourists, then the occasional summer cottage. Finally we

In the morning it was still raining and we didn't get

came to our old route again, went under the railroad

away until one o'clock. And there were more obstacles.

tracks and retraced Canyon River and Canyon Lake. We

Ridout Bay was full of pulp logs. We had to pull the canoe

crossed a series of lakes and portages that took us into

over the boom logs several times. Our last portage took

Silver Lake which we crossed at night, portaging at one in

us around the Norman Dam where we ran into a stiff

the morning. By August 19, our 27th day out, we could

current that slowed our approach to Lake of the Woods

hear the whistle of the mill in Kenora. After Sturgeon

proper and Tunnel Island. But there was Kenora Bay,

Lake, we came to the Black Sturgeon River, passed under

framed in strong sunlight against dark clouds. And there

the Kenora-Reditt road bridge, and found ourselves

at last was the boathouse!

approaching a rapids. No portage was marked on the

So ended our honeymoon and Irene's canoe

map. Daring to hope that we could reach Kenora by

apprenticeship. It was a far cry from those tentative forays

nightfall, we inspected the rapids. They looked shootable,

in the lagoon of Victoria Park in Kitchener when she had

so down we went, giving some tourists a thrill in the

panicked at gliding under an overhanging tree. Now she 118

• Daylight in the Swamp

Figure 36. Irene whittling, 1937

119

Daylight in the Swamp was a canoe partner who could be counted on to face any situation,

one whose

paddle

stroke

perfectly

complemented mine. But there was more to it: Ever after, Irene would dream that some day we would find a place of our own in this incredibly beautiful land, an island remote from roads. We would bring our children and they would bring their children. All could find what she had found.

Figure 37, Newspaper report of Selwyn and Irene Dewdney's canoe trip from Kenora to Red Lake and back, in Kenora Miner & News, Friday, August 20, 1937.

120

chapter ten

Men and Boys in the Mountains

Slim lived on the spot for five years and had 120 acres of

revolution and had emigrated to England where young

good land directly facing Mt. Selwyn, surveyed and deeded.

Nicholas, the eldest of the count's sons, received his

He'll sell the place for $300 and there is no one else after it

education. Now he taught at Upper Canada College in

except Nick who says he couldn't manage it for another

Toronto. Ignatieff planned a new expedition for the summer of

three or four years. So I said I'd take it up and give him an option on half of it.

1938. He proposed to explore the Cassiar Mountains of northern British Columbia, going in by way of Prince

From a letter to Irene, Finlay Forks, B.C., July 14th, 1938

George, Summit Lake, and the Crooked, Parsnip, and One Sunday evening in 1937, Irene and I heard

Finlay Rivers. He wanted to include the route followed by

Nicholas Ignatieff, then a young teacher at Upper

Alexander MacKenzie from the Peace River Pass at the

Canada College, describe two expeditions of the

Finlay Forks to the north bend of the Fraser River. Twelve

Schools' Exploration Society. In one expedition the

boys from four private schools would go along.

Society had travelled by canoe out of Lake Mistassini in

The whole idea excited me enough to write Ignatieff

Quebec Nouveau, in the other it had explored by

for an appointment. I travelled to Toronto, met him, and

schooner up the Stikine River in Northern B.C. In both

returned to London as the assistant leader of the

expeditions the society had successfully mapped an

expedition, official artist, and unofficial geologist. The

unexplored area of Canada.

expedition would dovetail perfectly with Irene's plans to

Ignatieff's father, Count Ignatieff, former Czarist

visit relatives in Germany. Her German-born father,

minister of education, had fled Russia during the 1917

Gustave, had been saving on her behalf for many months.

121

• Daylight in the Swamp Our Christmas card for that year shows Irene against a

trip to Prince George contains a lesson for people who

Rhine River background and me against Mt. Selwyn

take this country for granted. One day I came upon

(surname of the surveyor who had discovered it).

Ignatieff in the vestibule, his head as far out the window as he could get it, careless of the cinders that came flying by from our coal-powered locomotive. He turned around to look at me, his eyes glowing with joy. "Just smell that prairie air!" Perhaps there was nostalgia for him, memories of boyhood trips over the Russian steppes. As a fourth-generation Canadian, I always feel a bit shamed by immigrants who embrace their new land with an enthusiasm many of us lack. When we arrived in Prince George, we were met by Dick Corless, a freight agent of sorts. Corless ran freight by truck to Summit Lake, by wagon to the head of the Crooked River, then downstream by kicker-powered flatbottomed boat. He supplied the straggling fur posts and embryo settlements as far north as Fort Ware on the Finlay River. Everything had been arranged, and a couple of days later we found ourselves floating down the Crooked River in two boats with most of our supplies and all our gear.

Figure 38. Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdney, 1938

We had two guides, one running each boat. One of the guides, Slim Cowart, was a veteran of the river. He made

En route to the Mountains, our expedition travelled

all the important decisions. The other guide, whose name

by CNR with a whole coach to itself. It was one of the old

I've forgotten, was much younger but well versed in the

colonist cars with horsehair-padded seats that could be

bush. He came equipped, moreover, with a repertoire of

folded down to make a bed. No Pullman service: We had

scatological, obscene, and blasphemous bush ballads that

our own bedrolls and we did our cooking on the stove in

went well beyond the imagination of any liberated young

the centre of the coach. My most vivid recollection of the

urbanite. I mustn't forget the recent medical school

122

Daylight in the Swamp Figure 39, Cabins on Finlay River, 1938

graduate that everyone called Smitty. He joined the

who would rather spend the day in camp playing cards.

expedition as our official medical officer.

But as I got tp know the boys better, these two groups

The boys that made up the main body of the

subdivided further. Two lads stood head and shoulders

expedition were as mixed a lot as one could imagine.

above the others: Hal Davison and Hugh Gallic.

The variations reflected, among other things, the wide

Davison put his weight into everything he did and

range of motives that well-heeled parents might have

displayed a rare wit besides. He later became a test

for sending their kids to a private school. Some obviously wanted to get problem kids off their backs. Others wanted their children to have the career advantage of knowing the right people. Still others felt that public education gave little room for individual character building. Some no doubt followed a family tradition that went back to the British class system. As revealed by their behaviour in the bush, the boys appeared to fall into one of two groups: those who wanted to climb the surrounding mountains and those

123

Figure 40.

Finlay Forks , 1938

Daylight in the Swamp pilot, and it was a tragedy for everyone

F i g u r e 41

Hal Davison, 1938

who knew him when he died early

everyone in spasms, Monty would complain, "Sure. I could say exactly

in World War II during a test

the same thing and nobody would

flight. Hugh Gallic went into

laugh." As the weeks went by the

medicine; when I met him him

other boys began to go out of their

accidently five years after the

way to exacerbate the situation.

expedition I discovered

On principle, Ignatieff never

the

excellent human being I would have

intervened.

predicted. On the expedition, Galllie

discipline too often produced the

was indefatigably

opposite

cooperative,

responsible, and intelligent in the best sense of the word. Tops, in short, as a bush companion. Not all the lads displayed the fine qualities of a Davison or a Gallic. Others come to mind as

He believed that

result.

If

Monty

appreciated this attitude, he showed it in a peculiar way. One day we were camped on the Finlay River near some cabins called Bergman's Place. Here the Finlay made a big bend and here we had assembled

exemplars of less the desirable directions that human

horses to take us across the river and up into the Cassiar

nature can take. Ignatieff assigned duties to each of the

Mountains. Bower Creek, a fast, ice-cold mountain

boys. To a lad I'll call Monty, he assigned the job of

stream some twenty-five yards wide, ran into the Finlay

weather recorder. Nick gave him a wet- and dry-bulb

just by the camp. Here Ignatieff decided to bathe. No

hygrometer to record humidity, an air thermometer to

sooner had he stripped off his clothes and waded gingerly

record temperature, and a few other instruments. I

into the current than two boys decided to make off with

added the suggestion that Monty record wind direction

his clothes. In the meantime, Ignatieff waded across the

and cloud forms. But Monty wasn't interested. The next

stream to untie a small rowboat there, intending to pole it

day he accidently smashed the thermometer and that

back across the water. But he hadn't reckoned on the

ended his weather duties.

swiftness of the current. The instant he pushed off, the

Throughout our travels, Monty proved to be a

current whisked the boat downstream, completely out of

talented grumbler. When I made out a dishwashing

control. Ignatieff stood, stark naked, balancing himself

schedule he swore that his turn came oftener than anyone

precariously in the middle of the boat as it pitched and

else's. When Hal came up with a witticism that had

rolled, heading for the first bend. A second later, pole still 124

Figure 42. Hugh Gallie, 1938

Daylight in the Swamp braced the boat successfully for a full minute. Then the stream slowly had its way. The boat lurched under the overhang. Ignatieff, impaled on half a dozen broken branch-ends, made a heroic last-ditch effort to save the ship. He staggered to the bow which promptly went under water. This dragged man and boat under the tree where Ignatieff could no longer balance the craft. He splashed ingloriously into the water while the boat careened into the Finlay and out of sight. With chattering teeth and blue skin, Ignatieff made his way barefooted over the harsh gravel bank to the place upstream where he'd left his clothes. The thieves had stayed in the background, leaving only Monty to stand where the clothes had been. Monty laughed his raucous, Figure 43,

Mountain pack horse, Jake

adolescent laugh. Ignatieff took him for the culprit, and

in hand, Ignatieff was swept into a projecting deadfall and

with amazing good humour, began merely to splash him

here began a struggle so ludicrous that the whole camp,

with water. So Monty retaliated with mud. At this point

watching from the shore, became hysterical with laughter.

one of the boys realized that the fun was pretty much

The current was steady and insistent. It pulled

over and brought back Ignatieff's clothes. I shared

Ignatieff into the sharp snags of dead and broken spruce

Ignatieff's feelings about discipline, but my one regret

branches, scraping and poking his skin so badly that he

over the whole affair was that no one came up behind

began to panic. He must have realized that this same

Monty and pushed him into the stream for the ducking

unfriendly tree was his last chance to save himself before

he so richly deserved.

he and the boat would be swept around the bend into the

One other example of the strangely developed

Finlay. He would travel down the Finlay to the Peace

personality was a lad I'll call Milty. An earnest youth, full

River, down the Peace into the McKenzie River, then to

of enthusiasm, Milty was nevertheless too erratic to carry

the Arctic Ocean. Stark naked.

anything he undertook to a conclusion. One of my duties

Thrust against the unsympathetic deadfall, his skin a

as expedition geologist was to fan any spark of interest

brilliant pink against the sombre branches, Ignatieff

shown by any boy in the geology of the country. Milty 726

Daylight in the Swamp was the only boy who ever came to me. It wasn't long

impression of a face smudged with soot. And to top it all,

before he was showing up over and over again with one

he wore a purple scout-style hat tied around his chin with

piece of rock or another in his hand. "Geez!" he would

a leather lace.

shout in my ear. "Isn't this a swell piece of mica?"

Poor Milty! In spite of the thousands of dollars spent

Substitute the name of any rock or mineral that I taught

on his education and travels abroad, he remained a lad

him to identify and there was Milty. "Geez! Wouldn't this

with only one consuming passion—his collection of

be a swell piece to take back to my science master!" He

matchbook covers.

would often follow such remarks with a series of whoops

In the final sketch for my gallery of characters I

that sounded like a cross between a coyote's howl and a

present the boy we called Bones. On the horse trail he

cowboy's yodel.

fastidiously picked his way around the wet spots. On

Milty was also enthusiastic about providing

dishwashing duty he meticulously examined each dish for

unsolicited information. For example, once Slim was in

microscopic particles of dirt before drying it. In

the middle of telling the boys how a good placer miner

conversation he interspersed carefully cultivated British

could still make a living washing gold out of the Finlay

"ah" sounds (as in "and" and "half") into an otherwise

above Deserter's Canyon. The irrepressible Milty

Canadian accent. As expedition accountant he would

interrupted with, "Geez! Didja know they sometimes use

spend a whole afternoon trying to track down the four

a helluva big water wheel with buckets on it and the

cents he needed to balance the books.

current turns the wheel and raises the buckets on it and

Curiously, Bones was the prefect of his house at school

they use that instead of a pump." Here he slowed down,

and something of an athlete, as well as a scholar. Yet his

then looked around. "Don't they?"

manner was so mild I couldn't visualize him lecturing a

The most cursory sketch of Milty would be

lower school boy, let alone caning him. (Yes, they still

incomplete without a reference to his beard. To begin

aped the English system at Upper Canada College.)

with, Milty was a small lad with a dark complexion and a

Twice, however, he showed us another side of his mild

pair of heavy, dark eyebrows which beetled into each

personality. On the more (literally) striking occasion, two

other across his forehead. He stopped shaving when we

of the lads were indulging in some rough horseplay in the

left Prince George, and gradually the black hairs, singly

boat. One of them, probably on purpose, rolled over on

and in groups, crept down the sides of his face. They

Bones. Instantly our English gentleman turned into a

sprouted on his chin and groped around the corners of

snarling beast, jabbing the unfortunate romper with

his mouth. No amount of washing could eradicate the

shrewdly placed jabs of the elbow. The other's anger

127

• Daylight in the Swamp • flared in response and for a few moments there was

decisions, the group follows the leadership of the person

murder in the air. For a tense moment the only audible

with the most skill or experience.

sound was the throbbing of the outboard motor. The two

What I am also describing, of course, is the informal

suddenly became aware of a disapproving aspect in the

organization of a small band of hunter-gatherers in an

silence of the onlooking crowd and hostility subsided.

environment where winter survival is an annual problem.

The expedition provided examples of human

This may be why there are no "chiefs" among the

behaviour under stress—both good and bad—and led

northern, Algonkian-speaking peoples such as the Cree,

me to reflect that for any and all social relationships in a

Ojibway, and Montagnais-Naskapi; there is only a

bush setting, the ideal rule might be called bush

temporary leadership that varies with the period and

democracy. Whether it's two couples on a holiday canoe

nature of the situation.

trip or a dozen men on a survey party, bush democracy

Ignatieff would certainly have subscribed to bush

ensures both a minimum of friction and a maximum of

democracy. He hoped for as much, at least, from our

efficiency. The essence of all democracies is the willing

small, male "band". But too many boys came from

assumption of responsibility by the individuals that

indulgent homes and too many lacked the bush skills and

compose it. If a society comes to depend on a minority

experience to make bush democracy work. But it spoke

of specialists and specialist organizations, whether in

well for Ignatieff's leadership that only two emergency

labour, business, or education, the society can expect to

situations arose that summer. He could have prevented

achieve nothing more than cosmetic democracy. This

neither of them.

regardless of provisions to limit the power of the elite.

One of the emergencies developed a few miles up the

The larger the "society", the greater the disaffection of its

Finlay when one of the Robertson brothers developed

individual members who find their vote counting for

symptoms that our camp doctor, Smitty, diagnosed as

less and less.

appendicitis. A guide took doctor and patient by boat to

By contrast, in a small group in a setting where

the Finlay Forks where Smitty wired Prince George for a

anything from extreme discomfort to survival can be at

plane. By one o'clock the plane had picked them up and

issue, it becomes amply clear who is pulling his weight

by two-thirty Smitty had performed a successful

and who is not. In practice, each member sees a job to be

appendectomy in the Prince George hospital.

done and takes it on without orders. Decisions are made

Smitty and the guide returned later in the day. They

by looking at hard facts, discussing alternatives and

had landed, switched to the boat, and travelled to the

arriving at a consensus. In situations calling for instant

beach below Deserter's Canyon. Here, the water tumbled 728

Daylight in the Swamp swiftly out of the canyon from the head of the rapids upstream, where the rest of the crew waited at the head of a portage. Smitty and the guide pulled the boat onto the beach and brought their gear up to the head of the portage. Returning with the others to pick up the remaining baggage, we arrived just in time to see boat and all dancing down the river, cheerfully headed for the Arctic ocean. The water level at the beach apparently fluctuated a good deal, even in the space of a day. It had persuaded the boat to go on an expedition of its own. We ran back up the portage, and within minutes our second boat was shooting down the canyon rapids, on its way to the rescue. They finally found the runaway. Only its nose was visible, sticking out of a jam of driftwood and defying all our efforts to extricate it. Cameras and other expensive gear were a dead loss, as well as the boat. The cream of the trip that summer began at Fort Ware, a Hudson's Bay post where a number of the Sekani people, too old or too young for trapping, had their

F i g u r e 44. Sekani Woman - Fort MacLeod, 1 9 3 8

cabins. I made a sketch of a little boy who was

sometimes we had to stop early for the day rather than try

contemplatively sucking on a freshly caught trout. The

to make the next meadow by midnight. One early stop

sketch turned out rather well, and thereafter I became the

found us at the foot of a mountain ridge, and I decided to

expedition's official artist. I worked in pencil sketches

go up to see what was on the other side. As I neared the

during odd moments and painted mountain subjects

tree-line, I met organized resistance from the junipers,

whenever we took a day off.

but once I got though them, the way was clear to the top.

We secured the supplies to our packhorses with the

Finally, straddling the ridge, I looked into another world:

famous diamond hitch, then set off along a horse trail

vista upon vista of treeless valleys, naked crests and ridges

that cut across the northernmost bend of the Finlay.

reaching into the blue distance. Empty at my feet, with

Pasturage for the horses determined our campsites and

only reindeer moss, lichens and low shrubs, and empty in

129

• Daylight in the Swamp • the distance, with no living creature in sight. It was like a

I'm normally a pragmatic type, not given to flights of

land that God forgot, except for the space. It opened

fantasy, meditational indulgences, or psychic vibrations.

outward and outward into infinity itself. It brought,

But the structure then above us and around us

strangely enough, an intense awareness of my own

transcended any conceivable human dimensions. It

presence, the only visible being in all that immensity.

seemed the habitation of a Great Presence, gigantic in

On the way up the Finlay, an even more awesome

scale, beyond comprehension. And although it reduced us

experience awaited me. It began along a horse trail that

to the significance of microscopic worms, it brought

had originally given access to an abortive mining

exaltation, as if we had joined the heavenly host at the

operation on Mica Mountain. We hobbled the horses in a

birth of Jesus.

meadow, then made an easy climb to the top, taking our

One other experience remains indelibly impressed on

bedrolls, but no tents. We assumed there'd be no

my memory. The expedition's objective was to explore an

mosquitoes at the higher altitudes. When we got to the

area of the Cassiar mountains that had remained blank

top, the weather was perfect for sleeping out under the

on official maps, its highest peak unnamed and

stars, but the mosquitoes, naturally, were present in great

uncharted. When we arrived at the mountain, Ignatieff,

numbers.

Slim Cowart and a few of the boys climbed the peak to

As sometimes happens, however, the annoyance was

establish its altitude, latitude, and longitude. Meanwhile, I

prelude to a wonderful experience. The mosquitos had

descended to the foot of the mountain to paint by the

kept us awake just long enough to realize what was

shore of a tiny blue lake. Here I made two of the best oil

happening over our heads. Then like ushers, they retired.

sketches of the summer. One included the lake and a

It was the most amazing display of northern lights

thousand-foot cascade of meltwater from the glacier

that I have ever beheld. As a boy in Prince Albert I had

above, the other framed the peak of the mountain in the

seen the shimmering green and red curtains hanging in

patterns of ice and snow from which it emerged. Ignatieff

the midwinter night sky almost routinely. But this was

and the boys could not have chosen a more appropriate

unique. Great white sheets of light shot clear to the

name for the mountain. Mount Cowart honoured Slim,

zenith. Within seconds we became the minuscule

the unassuming, patient man who had spent a lifetime in

occupants of a great, shivering tent some fifty miles high.

this corner of God's country, learning the ways of its

This tent of light surrounded the whole mountain,

rivers and mountains.

shaking as in a mighty and invisible wind. It billowed and waved, but remained fixed firmly to its pole at the zenith.

On my way back to the camp I climbed above the timber line where the going was easier, then followed it

130

Daylight in the Swamp until I figured I was above the camp. On the way, I saw no

Speaking of rum, Alexander MacKenzie had brought a

sign of the others. I became uneasy. I had heard that

few kegs along on his trip to the Pacific in 1793. Did that

grizzly bears also liked to follow the timber line so I kept

explain the extraordinary discrepancies we found

up a lively whistling to give due notice of my approach.

between his data and ours? Ascending the Peace River

Passing a large clump of bushes, my head high, I caught a

with "Canadians" (his name for the mixed-blood

sudden glimpse of brown fur and my heart leapt into my

voyageurs), he reached Finlay Forks, then turned south to

throat. I was about to run for my life when the great

travel up the Parsnip and Crooked Rivers to Summit

predatory beast emerged. It was a whistler, the mountain

Lake, then over the height of land to the northernmost

version of a woodchuck.

bend of the Fraser River. Ignatieff had brought along the

Other memories of the expedition crowd into mind:

portion of MacKenzie's diary that recorded compass

Walking with Hugh Gallic one day in advance of the

directions and distances as he ascended the Parsnip and

horses, we came to an icy creek, a paralysing cold and

Finlay. On three occasions we recognized landmarks

deep torrent that almost swept us off our feet. It was a

mentioned by MacKenzie and each time we checked his

long day, with other streams to wade across and dirty

records against our observations. We spent hours trying

weather, to boot. We were all exhausted. That's when

to reconcile the two sets of figures. For example, when he

Ignatieff pulled out a bottle of rum. When my turn came

put down a "mile and a half SW" for a certain stretch of

I was amazed to find that I gulped it down like water.

river, we found it demanded three or four readings and as

Figure 45. Little Canada, 1938

131

• Daylight in the Swamp • many changes of direction. Was he just averaging a

drop. But not before noting that MacKenzie had probably

number of turns into a single generalized course? Or

relied totally on the skill and bush experience of his

perhaps the River didn't meander back in 1793. Given the

"Canadian" canoemen. His main contribution to

rocky nature of the country, that didn't compute either.

Canadian history in any case lay in his stubborn will as a

On the other hand, Mackenzie occasionally mentions rum and falling asleep from time to time, even losing an

Scot to accept no compromise in his determination to reach the sea.

instrument overboard during one sleepy spell. Is it

Travelling through river valleys we noted with

possible that the great explorer cooked his notes? Loath to

curiosity that they resembled prairie country more than

believe in such chicanery, Ignatieff and I let the matter

mountain interiors. Quite frequently river terraces shut out the view of bordering mountains. Only on Mica Mountain did we achieve the vista I had imagined. We had a perspective northward along the whole Rocky mountain trench. We were high enough that the faraway ridges of peaks resembled a great ploughed field, as if the Paul Bunyan and his famed blue ox, Babe, had made gigantic furrows across the land. This was to be my last grand view of the mountains. The summer of 1938 was drawing to a close and I couldn't wait to see Irene again. The fourth annual expedition of the Schools Exploration Society was its last. I met Irene in New York when she came off the ship Columbus, one of the last to make a transatlantic crossing before war broke out. Irene told me about her visit to Germany, especially the military buildup. There had been troops everywhere and aircraft flying overhead at speeds she had never imagined possible. She was happy to have the Atlantic between herself and Hitler's Germany. The war that followed ended our dream of a

Figure 46, From Mica Mountain, 1938

mountain wilderness home. It was not we who acquired 732

Daylight in the Swamp the Wicked River property but Nick and his new wife, Helene. For a few years it was their idyllic retreat. But then Ignatieff died of a heart attack, leaving an only son, also called Nick. Young Nick knew better than anyone that no one could replace his father. Gentle, imaginative, and practical, Nicholas Ignatieff had led by example, abhorring those who merely commanded. He was a visionary who could see the other side of the mountain, then go there with a plane table and transit, and put it on the map. He was among the few who in my opinion can be called great Canadians.

Figure 47, From Mica Mountain, 1938

133

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chapter eleven

Packing on the Pic

AM OUT OF BUSH POCKETS BULGING WITH CASH STOP WILL YOU WIRE ME AT HERON BAY AS TO DATE SCHOOL OPENS STOP IF OPENING IS DELAYED WILL PAINT FOR A DAY OR TWO LONGER Night letter to Irene, Peninsula, Ont. Sept. 2,1943.

Teaching in Ontario secondary schools in the 1940s was about as lucrative as supervising garbage collection or working as a plumber's assistant. As well, prewar salaries were paid by the working month so that summer holidays always created a financial chasm that somehow had to be bridged. Every June, as I now remember the process, I'd go to the bank and crawl into the manager's office on my hands and knees. "Please help me keep a roof over my starving wife and children." After an eternity of grave consideration, he would let a few dollars slip through his fingers. Nowadays the bank managers are the ones on their hands and knees. "How much would you Figure 48.

like? Five thousand? Ten thousand?" 135

Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdney

• Daylight in the Swamp • The idea that painting could supplement our income

through pulpwood. But after the truck had rumbled off, I

still lingered. Already, however, it had become mainly the

found myself dealing with large British Columbia timber

expression of my love for the country. I never made a real

booms, very tricky to pull Olga over. For an hour I

effort to sell my work. About all it did for us financially

managed to squeeze my way through a narrow channel

was to save the cost of store-bought presents.

between the outside booms and the shore. But then I

On the other hand, I knew that my bush background

turned a bend and saw more and more pulpwood,

would be an asset in the labour-starved north. The

stretching indefinitely ahead. Discouraged, I came ashore

previous summer I had run into a prospector by the

at an Indian reservation and portaged across to the Heron

name of Jack Ennis at Lake Missinaibi. He had promised

Bay road. Here, by happy coincidence, I ran into Jack

me a job with his diamond drilling operation on Lake

Ennis himself. He took me aboard his truck, Olga in the

Superior. I sent him a number of letters, some registered,

back, and drove down to the mouth of the Pic at Lake

to confirm the arrangement, but Ennis never replied. My

Superior. Fortunately the Lake was in one of its more

hand forced, I decided to go up anyway I took the CPR

relaxed moods. Ennis towed Olga behind his kicker.

train to Nicholson, where I got my canoe, Olga, out of

At Jack's camp I found three big tents, all with board

storage. I boarded the very next train to come along, put

floors and secured on two-by-four frames. Jack occupied

Olga in the baggage car, and got off again some fifty miles

one, his diamond drilling equipment took up the other

up the line at Heron Bay on the Pic (Ojibway for "mud")

two. He had been waiting two weeks for word that he

River. Heron Bay consisted of a hotel, a store, and not

could renew his drilling operation. Jack had run up

much else. I planned to put Olga into the Pic wherever

against an age-old dilemma, but one that most

feasible, paddle to the mouth of the Pic, then follow the

prospectors would love to encounter. Not gold, in his

Lake Superior shore for five miles to Playter Harbour

case, but molybdenum. He had found so much that to

where Ennis had his drilling operation.

mine all of it might bring the price down.

In Heron Bay I had the good fortune to run into an

He took me up to see the claim. He had staked out a

Ontario Paper Company truck driver who agreed to take

wide, deep molybdenum-bearing quartz vein that ran

Olga and me to the banks of the Pic. He told me I'd run

underground for about a mile. It was relatively rich, too: a

into a bit of pulpwood before we got to the mouth of the

vein only had to show a quarter of one percent

Pic, but I thought nothing of it. After all, I had fooled

molybdenum to be economic, but Jack's ran to 2 percent.

around in the booms on Kenora Bay and knew how to lift

He said that if he got the green light to drill deeper he'd

the canoe over boom logs, and how to push my way

be happy to take me on as crew. He pointed out that if he

136

• Daylight in the Swamp • had still heard nothing in the next few days, I could

commitment to bush life. The last verse goes like this:

always get a job rafting on the Pic River for Mike Chernovsky's outfit. The latter paid $100 a month and all

Then the sun's bright blaze dispersed the haze

found (including five meals a day) for five to seven hours

From out the crimson dawn

of work a day. I never did find out just what rafting

So I shouldered my pack and hit the trail

entailed, but I suspect it meant making and breaking up

That ever leads on and on.

booms of pulp logs. During the few days I spent in Ennis's camp, I

Some of the pictures I sketched or painted during my

sketched, split wood, and wrote letters. Once I wrote

stay with Jack included him as a subject. This pleased him

Irene, "Here I am, sitting under the same roof as Jack in a

immensely. I made two pencil sketches of Jack and a

big fourteen by seventeen tent. We are both writing, Jack

watercolour of him with the camp in the background. He

transcribing verse into ink from pencil copies. His two

wanted me to sketch the cook at Chernovsky's camp. This

preventatives against getting bushed are poetry and

man, it turned out, had been especially good to Jack after

sculpture: he has a set of tools and carves anything he

his return, only ten days ago, from the hospital. This

sees, in wood."

explained why he had answered none of my letters, but

Unfortunately, Jack was inspired neither as a poet nor

why had he gone to the hospital in the first place? Jack

as a sculptor. I cannot easily describe his carving, but I

was a bit vague about it. In fact, I didn't find out until the

did copy out one of his poems. His style owed something,

end of the summer.

I think, to Robert Service:

Orders to drill had still not come to Ennis when he finally decided it would be better for me to work for

MEMORIES

Chernovsky. He sent word that I was available and, within a day, Chernovsky arranged a job for me with General

I stand on the mount of memories

Timber, a big American logging outfit. Ennis drove me

And gaze at the crimson dawn

back to Heron Bay and I boarded a train for the short

Afar on fields that spread like shields

ride to Peninsula, a coaling stop on the CPR with a

My thoughts carry thither and yon.

marvellous view of Lake Superior. Here I found a bunkhouse mentioned by Warniker, the company

This poem, which continues for several verses,

representative. As I waited for the Pic River boat to arrive,

expresses a heartfelt loneliness struggling with a romantic

I pondered my situation. Soon I would be going up Pic

137

• Daylight in the Swamp • River where I would pack grub for the camps at four

whenever I found a subject I liked. For two or three weeks

dollars a day all found and a bonus of five cents an hour if

I enjoyed the relative luxury of supplying bush camps

I finished out the season with General Timber. In this

along the river. I would then run my load down the river

case, "all found" meant that the company would supply

in a small kicker, free of flies and the incipient

food and accommodation, my only other needs being

claustrophobia of constant travel through dense forest.

occasional clothing and tobacco.

I'll return to the story of my employment with the

"Why should men pack when horses might do as well?" you may ask. As you may have gathered from

American Timber Company after a few general remarks about the company and the land.

previous chapters, horses are unsuited to the Shield

For reasons that weren't entirely clear to me, the

environment. Draught horses were certainly useful to

General Timber Company had hired a lot of New

haul logs over frozen muskeg and lakes during winters in

Englanders to work on their logging operation along the

the forested north, but in the summer packhorses were

Pic. It may have been due to the manpower shortage

useless. Even in the expedition to the Cassiar Mountains

created by Canada's four year involvement in the war. But

of British Columbia we had used packhorses only on

it may also have been due to the novel nature of their

well-established trails through relatively open country.

pulp logging operation. Back in the 1920s wood was still

So, here on the Pic River, men were the pack-horses.

being used in the manufacture of sturdy boxes. But by the

I had already served an apprenticeship packing with

1930s most stands of red and white pine had been

the Geological Survey of Canada. But this work was more

exhausted. Escalating demand for paper began to eat

specialized. It was just as well that I packed alone for the

heavily into seemingly endless supplies of spruce and the

first few weeks, before I was joined by two fresh

coarser jackpine. Not surprisingly, box production shifted

employees of the American Timber Company. This

from wood to cardboard. The New Englanders may have

enabled me to get the basics down and work myself into

been more experienced at cruising for those trees most

shape: All I had to do was carry supply loads of sixty to

useful in the new kraft-and-cardboard industry. Poplar

ninety pounds from a base camp on the river off to more

pulp made excellent kraft paper and cardboard boxes for

temporary camps in the bush. I would follow trails blazed

everything from beer to bicycles. The new cruisers

through the bush by timber cruisers. The job was hard

estimated not only poplars but birch and all sorts of

physically, but it had two alleviating features. Once I had

smaller stuff that earlier cruisers wouldn't have sniffed at.

loaded up at the base camp I could go at my own pace.

Pic River terrain was totally different from the

This meant that I could stop and do an oil sketch

country around Playter Harbour or Peninsula. Whenever

138

• Daylight in the Swamp • I visited these places on the Superior shore, the steep

Years later I would come to realize that Jack had

shores, huge hills and vast stretches of open water

probably been told about the Maymaygwaysi, the

glimpsed between headlands never failed to impress me.

mysterious rock people. They had hairy faces, stole from

Lake Superior, after all, is this planet's largest freshwater

people's nets, and paddled stone canoes. The Crees

sea. At night, it was no less impressive. In midsummer an

conceived these same supernatural beings as very small

evening fog would roll in from the lake to lick at the hills.

and having no noses. Not your average Viking, to be sure.

When I began an oil sketch one evening, the shoreline

But to return to the Pic River and the Lake Superior

was clear, already like Lawren Harris' North Shore.

coast: the Pic is unlike any other Shield river I've seen,

Working from a burned-over hill, I was dismayed to see

with the possible exception of the Winisk and the

my landscape gradually vanish, until the whole subject

Atawapiskat. It's like a prairie river—muddy. So muddy

disappeared. Later I descended from the hill into the cold,

that the major hazards are deadheads, waterlogged

damp fog itself. Ugh!

timbers that lie submerged in wait, like so many

If you examine the Lake Superior shoreline more

alligators, submerged under the opaque surface. The

closely, from a canoe, for instance, you will find

banks of the Pic, on the other hand, resemble those of the

occasional deep fissures in the rock where a softer vein

lower Severn and Nelson Rivers. Steep walls of gravel or

has been eroded away by millennia of storms. You can

sand/clay erode and slide into the river.

hide a canoe in some of the larger fissures. Jack Ennis was

Packing on the Pic was, well, no picnic. At first my job

enthralled by the idea that the Vikings had penetrated the

appeared to be a cinch. Our first object was to establish a

North American continent as far as Lake Superior. He

base camp two miles inland east of the river. I packed

had heard from local Ojibway that "there used to be hairy

supplies from the river base four miles upstream to the

men that would paddle their big boats right up to those

landing of the trail to the bush camp. Well established,

cracks and disappear into them." To Jack's wishful way of

the trail led through two miles of high and dry spruce

thinking, these beings could be none other than Vikings.

and poplar terrain.

His speculations were no doubt set in motion by the

Our party consisted of two "timber cruisers" from

"discovery" of Viking relics near Beardmore, Ontario.

Maine called Lee and Eric; two high school kids from Fort

Also, in the course of his wanderings, he had come upon

William (now Thunder Bay) who worked as tally-men; a

the remains of a stone structure on the shore of a lake on

young clerk from Maine; a cook; and an old man who

the Spanish River. In any case, who better to remember

could just barely walk himself into the camp without a

the Vikings than the Ojibway?

load. At first, I was the only packer, but a few weeks after I

139

• Daylight in the Swamp • started, a stocky Swede named Ole and a Scotch lad from

second growth of young poplars and other trees has

Cape Breton came in to carry loads.

grown up through the timbers and produced an opaque,

Before the new packers arrived, I was the only one

leafy screen in the process. You can't tell what your foot

carrying into the bush camp. Although I slept in the

will encounter. Although you may trip frequently in cedar

relative luxury of the river base camp, every morning

swamp, you will trip continually in overgrown fire slash.

brought the same grim reality. I would take the first load

Obstructionist terrain takes only a mild interest in

by kicker down the river to the landing, wrestle the load

someone on a survey traverse. After all, such people carry

onto my back, then tote it two miles into the bush camp,

only a lunch bag, a compass, and a pace counter. But

or even beyond that to a new advance camp another two

packers have the worst of it. The branches clutch at your

miles deeper into the bush. On one typical day, I brought

pack, of course, and when you fall the heavy pack drives

in a thirty pound leg of ham, twenty-five pounds of fresh

you into the muck which makes the whole thing so much

meat, and thirty pounds of assorted groceries. The meat,

more worthwhile for the trees, both living and dead.

as I recall, was hardly "fresh", having turned a rather

On the day in question, I arrived at the advance camp

pleasant green colour, and somewhat odoriferous.

exhausted, having just traversed some of the worst

Ninety-odd pounds is no great weight for a one-mile

examples of both types of terrain. When I began to eat

portage but beyond that it becomes an incredible burden.

my lunch, it started to rain. By the time I got back to the

I had to rest every three or four hundred yards.

river, I was completely soaked except for the small area of

Beyond the bush camp the ground was not so good.

my back covered by the empty pack. Going back up the

The nadir of overland bush travel occurs in the two

river in an empty kicker-powered canoe was not as easy

terrains I call "obstructionist": cedar swamp and second-

as it sounds, even when the motor kept going. With only

growth fire slash. In the first terrain, low thickets of

my empty pack and gasoline tins as ballast, the vessel

swamp cedar conceal treacherous pockets of sphagnum

tended to ride very low in the stern making it hard to

moss. The branches of these cedars proliferate

control in the slow and tricky grind against the current.

horizontally instead of vertically and they frequently die

Sometimes I would take a heavy log with me to balance

back in the process. This leaves sharp spikes that clutch

the load. Or if I had the time I would cut a spruce pole,

viciously at any passerby. They specialize in ripping shirts,

lash it to the throttle of the kicker, then move my weight

pants, socks or skin with equal impartiality. In the

amidships to steer and control the motor from there.

second terrain, a recent forest fire has left the ground

When the base camp came into view I would sometimes

criss-crossed by every type of fallen, still-black timber. A

burst spontaneously into song. A hearty meal, followed 140

• Daylight in the Swamp • by an evening of drying clothes and washing socks,

This happens to be true of his famous painting The West

completed a full day.

Wind, for example.

Ole, the Swede moved into one of the tents with me at

Artistic pursuits not only provided me with diversion

the river camp with the result that I got to know him

in the bush, they actually earned me a living, if only for a

pretty well. No one I have ever worked with illustrated so

day. One Saturday night, Mike Chernovsky drove me out

well the psychological rigour of bush labour, or the pathos

to Heron Bay where I had a couple of beers with him.

of a homesick immigrant with a limited command of

After a few more, I took out my sketch book and the fun

English. I feared that Ole would follow the classic pattern,

began. After a few casual sketches of groups, I was

turning into a bush-bum over the years. He would earn

beseiged by pleas to be drawn. My fee was fifty cents.

some cash over the warm months, then move to the city

Some paid in beer and some in cash. The pocket change

for the winter, spending his hard-earned money on booze

alternately piled up and dwindled as some put money

and prostitutes. Becoming less and less employable over

down and others helped themselves. One of the fellows I

the years, he would turn by degrees into an alcoholic, in

had sketched earlier came back from the room marked

and out of jails and hospitals, alienated from life in the

"Women and Escorts Only" with a request to draw his girl

new land and forever cut off the old. I can't say this is

friend. It was now 11:45 and I was worn out after

what happened to Ole, of course. As the season

sketching frantically for a solid two hours. I am sorry

progressed, we made trips more frequently together. He

now that the thing went commercial, that I had to let

never spoke very much, but I took his silences to mean

some of those sketches go. One of the patrons, for

that he felt comfortable with me.

instance, made a perfect Judas. However, I made more

Sketching bush subjects provided me with occasional

than the dollar and a half my hotel room would cost.

hours of pleasant absorption. My oil sketching followed

Many times during the summer, but especially toward

the Group of Seven method then in vogue at the Ontario

the end, I thought of pulling up stakes and leaving. At

College of Art. The idea was to make one or more small

such times, the only thing that kept me on the Pic was

oil paintings directly from a subject, then to bring the

our need for money. Irene and three little mouths awaited

sketches back to the studio and repaint the more

the fruits of my labour. Near the end of August, I

promising ones on canvas on a much larger scale. Anyone

discovered a reason for having waited so long, a

who has seen original sketches by an artist like Tom

justification for everything. Between one of the base

Thomson will realize that sometimes these have more

camps and an advance camp, I discovered Nama Creek.

immediacy and feeling than the fully worked out canvas.

At the time, I was filling in as an assistant cook for an

141

Figure 49.

"Eric" (after a heavy meal) 1943

• Daylight in the Swamp • advance party off in the bush. A cruiser named Lee had

he had shot his own brother in a hunting accident, how

come upon the creek during a particularly exhausting

he had raced to get his brother out of the woods in time

traverse. When I heard about the place from Lee, I went to

to see a doctor. Somehow the Maine dialect made it all

visit it at my first opportunity. The trail was hot and tiring

seem the more compelling.

as it wound through swampy ground. But what a relief to

In mid-August, I volunteered to fill in as cook for the

get out on the bare, smooth rock to find a cascade of water

advance party while Joe, the regular cook, worked at the

so refreshing, so beautiful, I knew immediately that I

base camp. Rising before the sun at 4:30,1 would get the

would paint it. I made some sketches and two years later

breakfast ready for 6:30. After that I had some free time

completed a large canvas called Nama Creek.

until 4:30 in the afternoon, when I had to start supper.

Labour-management relations soured somewhat after

My specialties were meat, potatoes, soup, hot cakes and

the new packers arrived, a situation I tried to lighten by

the like. Occasionally, the boys would bring in a partridge

forming a "Union". We called ourselves the P. U. A. (Packers

or a speckled trout or grayling they had caught. More

Union of America). At a meeting one night, we decided

specialized stuff came from Joe at the base camp: pies,

that one trip a day and sixty pounds per trip was our limit.

bread, cake and cookies. Every other day, I would travel

Directing the operation of establishing and supplying the

back to the base camp to pack in a load of these

bush camp fell to a man named Gardner, the head cruiser.

delicacies, along with other groceries. Before each meal, I

He walked into the P. U. A. the next morning and informed

would write out a menu on birchbark and tack it to a tree

us that two trips a day would be about right.

near the crude table we had thrown together. Utter

Gardner was an enigmatic New Englander. When I

barbarians, my clients ignored the menu, even when I

first met him, sampled his clipped Maine accent and his

pointed it out to them. However, at meals they behaved

conventional ways, I privately regarded him as a man

themselves because they followed the time-honoured

stuffed with inhibitions. But, as I got to know him better,

bush tradition of silence, except for the occasional, "Pass

I discovered his sense of humour. Every now and then it

the butter", or "Where's the ketchup?"

would break through the clouds of his personality like a glimpse of blue sky

These were good days. During my hours off, I could explore and sketch to my heart's content. Soon enough, it

We saw very little of the cruisers but one unforgettable

seemed, the summer had evaporated. I found myself

evening we packers listened in fascinated horror to a story

returning to Playter Harbour. Here I ran into Jack Ennis

Eric had to tell. With as much feeling as if it had

again. I finally discovered why he'd been in the hospital.

happened yesterday, the hard-bitten cruiser told us how 143

Jack wintered, as you may recall, in Playter Harbour.

• Daylight in the Swamp • He lived alone in a framed tent with a wood-burning

shoot was that the animal appeared already to be

stove. One day, early that spring, he became aware of a

wounded or in some kind of trouble.

throbbing pain in his lower abdomen. At first he thought

When they realized it was Jack, they gave him what

it was just a stitch. But as the pain got worse, he

small care they could and packed him off to Port Arthur

recognized the symptoms of appendicitis. At first, he

(now Thunder Bay). The doctors there operated just in

decided simply to ride it out. But one morning he awoke

time. In fact, Jack required a second operation for an

with a high fever and such agonizing pain that he knew

infected hip from which they removed a piece of bone the

he must get to a doctor or die. He staggered out of the

size of a shears handle. By the time I arrived at his camp,

tent, took a few steps, and immediately passed out. When

Jack looked just normal enough for me to suspect

he came to, he crawled back into the tent. The next day,

nothing serious. By the end of the summer he was healthy

he made two attempts to get away. He fell both times and

enough to pack a load in circles around me.

returned to the tent.

Jack is long dead, member of a dying breed. But not

Time was getting short, it was now or never. On the

far from the island where I write this, there's another Jack

third attempt, he staggered a few paces, then fell to his

who celebrated his eightieth birthday last Christmas and

hands and knees and began to crawl. He crawled along a

still does the work of three men. Jack McKee, who built a

winter road, now half thawed and almost impassable, all

new cabin for us on the north side of the island, is well

the way to Mike Chernovsky's camp at the mouth of the

into his 70s. This Jack, who has worked as a trapper,

Pic. Every fifteen minutes or so, Jack would pause to rest.

prospector, fire-boss, and lumber-jack, is still hale and

Sometimes, he would pull up his jacket and lie with his

hearty, and an endless source of stories for my children

naked belly next to the snow. This seemed to numb the

and grandchildren to hear.

pain a bit. Recalling it all, Jack figured it took him some twelve hours to crawl to the river's edge by the Chernovsky camp. His nails were broken and his fingers bled. His pants were gone from the knees down as he began crawling across the ice toward the camp. Perhaps because the sun was setting, Jack resembled some kind of slow moving animal out there on the ice. Chernovsky's accountant saw the animal and alerted Mike, who got out his rifle. The only reason Mike didn't

144

chapter twelve

Boys in the Bush

In the evening we went for a paddle (Donner and Kee

this trip. Looking back, the finances seem impossible. We

each trailing a spinner) ... Passing too dose to some weeds,

had bought the original house for a mere $3,500 and that

I told Donner to watch for a phony "bite" He got one. I

year our living expenses came to a little over $100 a

took the line, thinking to pull in some weeds and found we

month. Royalties from the book brought in $1200.

had a fish. . . . As I lifted the fish in, a medium-sized

We took the train to Nicholson and got Olga out of

jackfish, he came off the hook and flopped frantically . . .

storage, where Mike Chernovsky had been kind enough to

Donner's and Kee's eyes popped with excitement but they

ship her. The logging town of Nicholson was still alive in

kept their places 'til I stunned the fish with my paddle.

1946, but already moribund. Three of the village houses were empty and all of the buildings were run down,

Diary: Lake Windermere, August 1946

including the schoolhouse and the church. I made a sketch Four years had passed before I got up north again, this

of the church and took Donner around to look at the

time with my young family. The war was over and I had

empty houses. Their contents had been stripped and now

resigned my teaching job. Irene and I decided to take our

they stored lumber and unused equipment. Nicholson still

two oldest sons, Donner and Keewatin, leaving baby Peter

boasted a general store, a bakery, a smithy, a harness shop

with my brother Albert and his wife Margaret in Toronto.

and, of course, a railway station. The two daily passenger

The year 1946 was eventful in other ways. I cashed in

trains going east and west rarely stopped. As for the

my pension fund accumulation of $800 and with it I

harness shop and smithy, the lumber industry still used

somehow managed to build an addition to our house,

horses exclusively to haul logs. In other parts of the

write and publish a novel (Wind Without Rain ), and take

country, tractors were coming into use for winter hauling.

145

Daylight in the Swamp tent to attach the small wedge tent where the boys would sleep. Donner (Irene's family name, also German for "thunder") was six and a half years old. Keewatin (the Algonkian word for north wind) was about to turn five. In fact, we celebrated his birthday then and there. At six on his birthday morning, Kee lay shrouded completely under his blankets. I played "Happy Birthday" on the recorder. No response. Irene, Donner, and I sang "Happy Birthday". Still no response. Finally, Irene got out the presents and we began to pretend we were unwrapping them with loud comments of surprise. Suddenly a little blue-eyed face popped out of the covers, grinning as only Kee can. He unwrapped his presents: A miniature English sports car, a truck, and a passenger car. "Oh", said Kee. "A nineteen-six-forty model!" A wire seive and sand play-set completed his modest windfall. An original child even then, Kee converted unfamiliar words into familiar ones. A "loon" was a "balloon" and a "raft" was a "giraffe". On one occasion out on the lake, I Figure 50. Church at Nicholson, 1946

We renewed our acquaintance with Bill and Hazel Austin, a friendly and hospitable couple whom we had

saw a wind coming up so I instructed Kee to call upon Keewatin to blow. When it did, he was amazed at his omnipotence!

met a few years earlier. Bill owned and operated the

Anxious that our boys learn to love the land as we did,

Austin Lumber Company. Layton Goodwin, the good-

we exposed them to bush life in every way we could think

natured station agent at Nicholson, ran us out to a small

of. I taught Donner to chop wood for the fire. I took both

beach west of the village. It was an ideal campsite where I

boys on a tramp into the bush, then asked them to show

could paint Olga grey and show the boys some camping

me the way back. But their main instruction lay in the use

basics. We split the back seam of the eight-by-ten wall

of the canoe. 146

Daylight in the Swamp Figure 51, Old Barn - Nicholson, 1 946

Strange to think of it now, we had no thought of using

according to plan. Unfortunately, she put her other foot

life jackets and used none ourselves. We thought it far

into the canoe too soon. Her full weight ground the

more important to teach the boys to avoid capsizing in

canoe to an instant halt, and her momentum carried her

the first place. If the water was rough, they were to sit on

head first into the bow. She looked peculiar, almost

the bottom of the canoe, keeping their centre of gravity

standing on her head, legs in the air. I broke into a guffaw

low. They were to kneel while paddling (although I

but our two little sons stared in awe at the spectacle,

seldom set a good example in this regard). The key word

wondering whether they would ever be able to master

was not safety, but respect. They had to respect the wind

the manoeuvre.

and the waves, respect the capacity and limitations of canoe travel, respect wildlife.

To be fair, I should add a fiasco of my own. Many years later, I tried to teach my grandson Jonathan how to

But we could overdo the teaching urge. Once, pushing

put on the brakes when his canoe was confronted, let us

a beached canoe into the water, Irene told the boys, "Now

say, by a submerged boulder. I spurted in towards

I'll show you the proper way to shove off when you're the

Jonathan who sat skeptically on the shore. At the last

bow paddler." She began to shove, one foot in the canoe,

possible moment, I put all my strength into a deep back-

the other on the sand. She gave a mighty heave. The

paddle. I must have waited a second too long or leaned

canoe yielded obediently and began to slide off the beach

too far. As the paddle sent a huge wall of water

147

• Daylight in the Swamp • shoreward, the canoe gracefully capsized. I stood up in

Then it made an unbelievably quick swipe at my face,

about three feet of water and tried to save face. "That's

just catching my left cheek through the open window

how not to stop a canoe!" Jonathan, soaked by the splash,

and leaving a faint scar that you can see to this day.

was not impressed.

Travelling along an old portage trail through the bush

Wildlife was always worth watching for. As we set out

with the boys one day, I remarked that we might see a

on our bush excursion, I quizzed the boys. Where would

bear. "Does this trail go to a zoo?" Kee wanted to know. At

the loon come up next? What was that long, slender

one camp all four of us got involved in building an

furry creature watching from the shore? The one animal

aquarium on the beach. We filled it with pollywogs just

that Irene and I were always on the lookout for never

getting their legs, with live clams, a minnow we caught, a

showed up: bears. We had become obsessed with bears

large black water beetle, and two leeches. We also found

ever since the Red Lake trip when we hadn't seen a one,

and added a number of caddis fly larvae living in long

even in the distance.

shells made out of assorted debris like pine needle and

Strangely enough, in all the nights that I have camped alone in the bush, I have seen neither hide nor

grains of sand. They crawled along the bottom of the aquarium like tiny animated sticks.

hair of a bear. I told myself it was because I kept a

More thrills awaited the boys when we paddled toward

meticulously clean camp. I burned all food scraps and

the nesting site of a gull on an isolated rock one day. The

kept supplies well stowed. Jack Ennis, who kept a less

mother dive-bombed us. The term is apt because this

than immaculate camp, on the other hand, had a fund

graceful flyer first gains altitude than dives straight down

of bear stories. Including the bear that invaded his tent

at you, pulling up only a few feet from your head. She'll

one night while Jack was away and got its nose stuck in a

repeat the performance, again and again, as long as you

jam jar. When Jack returned, he found the bear

stay around. We stopped at another gull rock to inspect

wandering his camp with the jam jar over its muzzle.

an abandoned nest only to encounter a loon with two

The only close encounter I ever had with a bear came

young ones on her back. The mother dumped the

later in life during one of my many trips in search of

loonlings and put on a comical display to lure us away.

pictographs. In one of the provincial parks, I came upon

She stood up on her tail and flopped about on the water

a young bear standing beside the road. He looked

as if her wing were broken.

friendly enough so I stopped the VW microbus and

One evening when the boys had been put to bed in

began to speak with him as I do with most animals I

their special tent, Irene sang "Swing Low Sweet Chariot".

encounter. The bear stood it for about five seconds.

The phrase "comin' for to carry me home" stimulated a

148

• Daylight in the Swamp • discussion of old age and death. This led to speculations

Although camping by a beach is not always a pleasant

about the universe as a whole. "If all the atoms went out

affair, owing to no-seeums, blowing sand and the like, it

of a toy," Kee wanted to know, "would it fall to pieces?"

can provide endless absorption for children. At

One week on Lake Windermere was all the vacation

Timberwolf Lake it invited miniature projects like roads

we had that year. Little did we realize that we would be

and sand castles. It reminded me of the ones I used to

back thirty years later to occupy an island that we must

engage in as a ten-year-old at Sand Lake in Saskatchewan:

have passed more than once as we explored the lake in

I can recall building a neat little country home

August, 1946. But for the time being, our dream of a

surrounded by a moss forest with an access road running

summer home in the bush was fading.

through it. I used three kinds of moss to suggest stands

Algonquin Park had never been much more than a

of spruce and deciduous trees, even making little wood-

name to me before 1946.1 knew it only as the place where

chip cars. It worried me not in the least that the cars had

Tom Thomson had done much of his painting and,

no wheels.

finally, drowned. But when I edited and wrote an

As at Windermere, wildlife fascinated the boys. One

introduction to Audrey Saunders' Algonquin Story that

evening at sunset they were all squatting on a shelf of

year, I developed a vicarious familiarity with the place

rock brushing their teeth, when one of them spotted two

and a desire to see that fabled country for myself.

crayfish in shallow water, their nippers locked. It was

In the summer of 1947 Irene and I took all three boys,

getting dark so we got out the flashlight and all five of us

Donner, Kee, and Peter, up to the park for a two-week

watched in sheer fascination as the combatants wrestled

exploratory sojourn. We still had no car so we travelled by

back and forth. At full darkness, they cast long, alien

train, having selected on the map an obscure-looking

shadows against the rocky bottom. Perhaps this helped

station called Brule Lake as our jumping-off point. We

set the stage for a reading of The First Men in the Moon,

had already arranged for Olga to be shipped down from

by H.G. Wells. I began that night and continued every

Nicholson and she was waiting for us when we arrived. In

night until the book was finished.

fact, there was time to portage out of Brule Lake into

During the day the boys were in and out of the water.

Timberwolf Lake before night fell. We pitched our tent

Inevitably one of them (Kee in this case) discovered a

near an abandoned ranger's cabin just yards from a

leech on his ankle. Unthinkingly, I wrenched it off,

pleasant little beach. The boys were a little bigger now,

leaving the head inside the skin. This created an infection

Donner was seven, Kee five, and Peter four. The wedge

that had to be treated when we got home. While folding

tent annex now slept all three.

some blankets one day, Irene got a nasty sting from a

149

• Daylight in the Swamp • hornet that got mixed up with the fabric. That was the

tow. How would we like to sleep in the night watchman's

only insect problem that came up in the whole trip. The

cabin? He'd get us up in plenty of time!

Algonquin country seemed remarkably free of blackflies or mosquitoes at the time.

I was enthusiastic, Irene was reluctant, but we accepted. The old man led us up the hill to a small shack

The day we went out it rained steadily. Portaging back

which had one bed that could be pulled out to make

into Brule Lake, we stopped halfway for respite from a

another half-bed. The kids would sleep on the floor. They

heavy shower. We turned the canoe over and propped it

didn't seem to mind the reek of fly repellent. Nor did they

to make a cosy lean-to under which we could all sit and

seem to notice the piles of dead flies on the sills of

watch the rain fall past the opposite gunwale. Peter had

windows that were never opened. Irene was appalled and

packed his load so manfully that I recognized it by giving

couldn't sleep. I slept fitfully, waking frequently just in

him a smoke. Today's urbanites, horrified by anti-

time to save myself from falling out of bed. We had found

smoking campaigns, have no idea of the relief and

a pathetic pile of nudist magazines with titles like

relaxation that can come from a few drags on a cigarette

Sunbathing for Health.

after an exhausting bit of bush travel. We arrived at the Brule Lake station late in the afternoon only to learn that the train would not come

By the next evening, five weary travellers descended from the train in London, Ontario, returning to the challenge of life without a steady income.

through until early morning. The rain had stopped so we

Curiously, just as the rest of the country enjoyed the

"did the town". There was an old-fashioned steam-

spreading affluence of postwar years, the family income

powered sawmill still in operation, two or three

hovered close to the poverty line. I had resigned my

warehouses, and a barnlike building that housed the local

teaching job in protest over the treatment of a colleague

Lands and Forests Office. Here we met the ranger who

by the London Board of Education and I had found a

showed us some magnificent wolf pelts hanging from the

part-time job teaching art to mental patients, most of

rafters inside. He agreed to store Olga for the winter so

them World War I veterans, at London's Westminster

we heaved her up gently onto some beams and left with a

Hospital. Over the postwar decade, I turned my hand to

feeling of relief. Little did we realize that we would never

book illustration and mural painting to supplement our

see her again.

income. Illustrating textbooks turned out to provide an

As the sun set, we were just anticipating the

irregular income at best, and the commissions I earned

discomfort of a night on the hard benches of the station

from mural painting involved long waits between

when Kee turned up with the sawmill night watchman in

submission of sketches and the final payment. To these

150

Daylight in the Swamp uncertain sources of income I added private teaching. We

Instead, I painted a pictograph on her bow of the most

barely managed.

powerful Algonkian manitou, Mishipizhiw. By this

In the meantime, our family was growing. In 1951

symbol I honoured the native tradition of invoking the

our fourth son Christopher was born, completing the

mighty underwater serpent-lion for a safe passage over its

roster. By 1954, Donner had grown into a husky fourteen-

sovereign domain.

year-old. By day he attended high school. In the evenings

I had always regretted that Irene and I had not

and on weekends he worked part time at the local fish-

included Lac Seul on our honeymoon canoe trip. When

and-chip store peeling potatoes for an alcoholic

Donner bought the canoe, we shipped it to Hudson.

proprietor whom he had to escort home more than once,

Starting from there, we planned to travel up Lac Seul,

propping him up.

portage over to Wahbiskang, go down the Cedar River to

The north had never seemed so far away. Not only

the English, along that river to the mouth of the

were our finances precarious, but the beloved Olga had

Wabigoon. We would then paddle up the Wabigoon to

died in a raging fire when the Lands and Forests building

Canyon Lake and the railroad stop at Macintosh where

at Brule Lake had burned down. There had been no

we would board the train for home. For me it would be a

insurance. Irene, who sensed the importance of the bush,

sentimental journey, for Donner a basic bush

proposed that I take Donner on a two-week canoe trip.

apprenticeship.

But in what canoe?

At Hudson,

Frank

Bowman

still

ran

his

Donner had been setting aside a few dollars a week

transportation and fishing businesses but the waterfront

from his job at the fish-and-chip store and by 1954 he

had changed radically. We stocked up with food and

had earned enough money to buy a canoe jointly with us.

pushed off. I felt uneasy about the changes in Hudson

We, of course, would have to pay him back within a few

and the lowering clouds did nothing to bring back the

years since these were his savings for medical school. In

sunlit vistas I remembered. Naturally, I nevertheless

those days, every major department store stocked canoes

looked forward to seeing Lac Seul the way I remembered

in a variety of models. We went to Toronto and found a

it and my unease gradually receded, as did Hudson, in

fifteen-foot prospector at Eaton's. She was broader of

the distance behind us.

beam than Olga, and flatter of bottom, a keelless, canvas-

Within an hour or two, I came to realize that my new

covered Chestnut canoe. She was no mere pleasure craft

maps of the Lac Seul area were not very useful. Although

but a working canoe, superior to Olga in carrying a

they showed the new road and other "improvements" in

greater load with a shallower draft! She never got a name.

the landscape, the mapmakers hadn't caught up with

151

Daylight in the Swamp changes in water levels in the area mapped. Moreover, my

father's incompetence. He was already something of a

memory of the old canoe route ot Lac Seul utterly

worrier, and there undoubtedly flashed through his mind

confused me as I looked closely at the new geography.

a series of misadventures, if not catastrophes.

Headlands had become islands, little bays had become

The next morning, we paddled through a depressing

deep inlets. The wild rice fields that I used to pass on my

forest of dead, flooded trees that still stood, a graveyard of

way back to the mission from Hudson had all vanished.

wooden ghosts, then finally emerged onto the open lake.

Brush had overgrown the old camp grounds at

Inevitably, drawn by the powerful memories of my

Frenchman's Head. It dismayed me even more to realize

halcyon years, I headed the canoe for the mission church.

that I had lost the knack of relating actual distances to

The visit was to have far-reaching results. The desolation

map scales.

of that dilapidated building, the sense of a lost age,

Things might have gone all right in spite of these

nostalgia for those two wonderful summers on Lac Seul,

factors if the sun had been out, but it rained and I had no

blended together into a feeling so powerful that I was

clue about directions unless I took out my compass, a thing

later to draw on it for my second novel, still ahead of me.

I was loath to do in front of Donner. Hadn't I told him that

In Christopher Breton, I described the interior of that

I knew this country "like the back of my hand?" The

storied church almost exactly as I found it on my return

inevitable happened. After paddling for little more than an

with Donner. I sat quietly reflecting in the back of the

hour, we rounded a point and found ourselves heading

church while Donner explored around outside.

straight for Hudson again. Donner was more dismayed

Nothing of the old mission house was left, nothing of

than I. How could it happen? His dad, the seasoned bush

the old Hudson's Bay post. Water covered Aldous's golf

traveller, lost on the very first day of the trip?

course and the former beach. It had forced the HBC to

I was determined to find the one portage that must

build a second post further back, among the trees. There

still be above flood level. We poked our nose into one bay

was no one about, so we paddled over to the bay where

after another. But everywhere deadfall covered the shores,

we found a group of people standing on a dock and

some of it the debris of uprooted trees that had floated

waiting for a boat from Hudson. Deciding that it made

about the lake for a decade or more. Finally, I was sure

more sense to take the boat thirty miles up the lake rather

that we had found the portage. It had fallen into neglect

than paddle against a stiff headwind the whole distance,

and was so totally overgrown as to be invisible. We

we joined the crowd. We stood chatting with the

camped for the night. Staring into the embers of our fire

Hudson's Bay clerk when he accidently dropped his

that night, Donner looked deeply anxious about his

glasses into the water beside the dock. Donner was an 752

• Daylight in the Swamp • excellent swimmer so I suggested that he dive for them,

perfect days. At one point I made a sketch of the cliff on a

The water was eight feet deep and Donner had difficulty

nearby island. I also remembered with perfect clarity a

locating the glasses against the bottom. He had to feel his

shore opposite the campsite, not fifty yards away. I was

way. Again and again he dove. He found the glasses just

about to receive a big shock,

before the boat pulled in.

When we arrived at the campsite, the rock, the

The vessel turned out to be a fish boat. We bummed a

jackpine and the shelving shore were exactly as I had

ride and rode with it all the way to its final destination,

remembered them. But where was the opposite shore? It

the owner's fish camp. A free meal and a sauna

had vanished utterly! There was open water for at least

immersion topped off the day.

half a mile all around us. The cliff I had painted was

On the morrow we were back in the canoe, paddling

barely visible, well down the lake! The solution did not

until we reached a tourist outfit at the west end of the

come until, writing these memoirs, I noticed that Irene

lake. Here we got another lucky break. A truck was about

and I had spent our two nights on Wahbiskang at two

to leave for the main highway. The driver cheerfully gave

different campsites. One of them Donner and I now

us a lift over what would have been a very tough portage

inhabited, the other we had already passed without

and dropped us off at the north end of the portage into

realizing it. I had merged the memory of two different

Wahbiskang Lake.

campsites into one!

Travelling north along part of the route Irene and I

Two days later, a second shock awaited. As we paddled

had taken on our return from Red Lake, we were

down the Cedar River, I told Donner that we were

approaching a campsite of which I had the clearest

approaching a true wilderness area where we wouldn't

possible mental image over the intervening years,

see another soul for at least three days. Just then we

"Tonight," I told Donner, "we'll camp at the same site

heard a work whistle and, as we rounded a bend in the

where your mother and I spent two wonderful days and

river, came upon a construction crew working full blast

nights." I went on, describing the site in glowing terms

on a hydro dam. As it would turn out many years later,

and leaving him in no doubt about just how it looked:

this was just the first of many hydro dams on the English

There was a thin stand of jack pine growing on flat

River system, all to provide electricity for Winnipeg and

bedrock that shelved gently into the lake. There could be

northwestern Ontario.

no mistaking the site, I told him, because a huge block of

After the dam, our wilderness finally materialized and

granite lay near the fireplace, exactly the right height and

the days grew leisurely. By the time we reached the

flatness to make a table. Here Irene and I had spent two

Wabigoon, I realized that we were falling behind

153

• Daylight in the Swamp • schedule. We paddled into the twilight until potential

Corn and pommes de terre dessechees

campsites were no longer visible. We weren't very far

Rice pudding with raisins and coconut topping

from the next portage but an ominous roll of thunder

Tea and coffee

sent us paddling for the shore. In a state of semi-panic we pitched our tent in what was probably the worst place I've

Of course no meal could compare with the game

ever camped in, a sort of hollow filled with two or three

which we frequently saw during the trip, mainly moose,

rotting logs that we didn't take the time to remove. Up

bald eagles and deer. The most touching sight presented

went the tent, down came the rain, and we made it inside

itself on a narrow part of the English River, where a small

just in time. But how to find rest for our weary bodies on

strip of beach fronted a steep forested hill. A doe suckled

the rotting deadfall? Working by flashes of lightning, we

her fawn for a moment, neither aware of our presence.

tried to level the groundsheet a bit. We were just getting it

The fawn suddenly pulled away and went gambolling

nicely organized when a sudden burst of wind collapsed

down the beach. It would put on a burst of speed, twist

the tent. Exhausted, we simply lay under the collapsed

around, kick up its heels, then run into the bush. Just

canvas. Of course, the hollow beneath us gradually filled

when the mother grew anxious, it would burst out into

with water and soon the entire floor of the tent was

the open again for a repeat performance.

soaking. I remember nothing else of that night. Perhaps

At the whistle-stop called Macintosh, we ended our

we slept the sleep of the dead regardless of soaked

trip. Donner had grown rather homesick during the last

bedrolls and sore backs.

few days of the trip and I too was ready for home.

After such depressing experiences some highlights were in order. We paddled up the Wabigoon and into Canyon River where we made camp just two portages below the site where Irene and I had camped on our honeymoon trip. Here, after washing our clothes and dishes, we prepared a morale-boosting meal. I still have the menu: Smoked oysters on wheaten biscuits Mushroom soup a la Lipton Chicken a la King 154

Figure 52, S e l w y n Dewdney, March 1946

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chapter thirteen Red

In the old days, before the Shaganash came, the Anishinahbaig knew many things. They made canoes of birchbark. Instead of guns they had bows and arrows and spears. They split hard stones to make points for these. They made pemmican to eat when food was scarce. They knew of many roots that would heal the sick. The old men sang magic songs. Soon the old ways will be gone, like tobacco that is smoked to ashes... Excerpt from Canon Sanderson's introduction to the Ojibway Elders, 1960 It was on Lake of the Woods that I first saw the mysterious aboriginal paintings called pictographs. On a trip to Blindfold Lake with a chum by the name of Charlie Smith, I encountered the rocky cliffs and red ochre figures for the first time. The name "Blindfold" is apt enough. Overlapping rocky points hid what was to come. Only a wealth of bubbles in the water hinted at rapids nearby. A short liftover brought us face to face 157

Ochre

Figure 53. Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdney, 1957

• Daylight in the Swamp • with a vertical rock face, about six feet high, with a

Quetico Park the previous summer. Indian rock paintings

sloping ledge below.

had been reported at several places in the park. When and

We paid scant attention to the figures in red ochre. Instead, we were fascinated by the offerings on the ledge:

if he could find the funds, would I be interested in going there to record the paintings? I would.

a rusting chipped enamelware cup and plate, some

Two years later I finally heard from him again. He had

clothing. What else? I can't remember. We felt something

the funds. Could I go? The task that was to occupy a

magical here, something too deep for words. We touched

larger and larger part of my life for the next twenty-five

an alien culture.

years had begun.

The year 1957 was a watershed for me and, to some

The money came from the Quetico Foundation, an

extent, for the whole family. That year I began what was

organization of influential figures in the forestry and

to be the primary occupation of the rest of my life. You

mining industries, along with a sprinkling of corporate

could say that I finally discovered what I wanted to do

lawyers. All were dedicated to preserving wilderness

when I grew up.

values in areas where their own industries were not

I had left my high school teaching job and was eking

jeopardized by unreasonable environmental restrictions.

out a marginal living as a textbook illustrator,

To do the Foundation justice, it took a keen interest

supplemented by teaching landscape painting to amateur

in the Quetico area, situated on the international

art clubs and exploring art therapy at Westminster

boundary roughly halfway between Thunder Bay and

Veterans' Hospital. Earlier, in 1951,1 had even thought of

Fort Frances. Later they extended their charter to cover

becoming a mural artist. Through much of the decade I

all Ontario provincial parks and wielded considerable

had enough commissions to sustain the dream, including

influence on government policies concerning them. The

the board room of the Bank of Nova Scotia at Bay and

Foundation put up $900 towards my expenses, the

King in Toronto, Waterloo Trust in Kitchener, and several

Department of Lands and Forests provided living

in London: the London Life Company, the Odeon

quarters at French Lake in Quetico Park, and the Royal

Theatre, Victoria Hospital, and General Motors.

Ontario Museum lent respectability to the project by

During a visit to the Royal Ontario Museum in

allowing its name to be used.

Toronto, I met Kenneth Kidd, curator of the Ethnology

For me this was an unbelievable godsend—an all-

Department, and by sheer good luck he happened to

summer sojourn in God's country with my family. By

know of my interest in pictographs. Kidd explained that

canoe and by air I made half a dozen forays into the Park

he had just completed an archaeological survey of

interior, with Kee and Peter alternating as field assistants. 158

Daylight in the Swamp Figure 54. Selwyn Dewdney and son Christopher with VW minibus during a pictographic expedition

In the course of the summer I found a dozen sites. Our

contributed to the herbariums of several important

happiness was tempered, however, by the rough time Irene

museums and was an experienced bird-watcher to boot.

was having. Her mother had died only a few months

This was Chris's first exposure to the bush. I must add

before, and then she had to travel to Kitchener for a last

that, after Lake of the Woods and Lac Seul as they were,

glimpse of her father. We were so short of money that she

Quetico Park ranks third in my experience of canoe

had to hitch-hike from Thunder Bay to the Park, carrying

country. You have to go east, all the way to Lake

her suitcase and a basket of Bartlett pears!

Temagami, to approach it.

The expeditions made good camping and canoeing

My canoe was the one I had purchased from Donner

experience for Peter and Kee. After the turmoil of her

when he was a medical student. Thereafter, she was

Kitchener visit, Irene could unwind, as well. She had only

faithful servant to the pictograph project wherever I went

Christopher to look after now and Claude Garten, the

pictograph hunting in the Shield country. I even took her

park botanist, fed their interest in the natural world.

to the prairies in case I needed her further north. I have

Garten, a school principal from Thunder Bay, had

photographs of her at the crest of a buffalo jump in

159

• Daylight in the Swamp • southern Saskatchewan, beside a glacial boulder the size

mine by day and taught basic English at night. This was

of a house in the foothills of the Rockies, and next to the

thanks to Frontier College, a uniquely Canadian

hoodoos of the Milk River in southern Ontario. My canoe

institution that found bush jobs for university students,

may even have set a record for being the most frequently

requiring them to instruct new Canadians in English and

airborne of all canoes.

other basic subjects. In later years, Kee and Peter were also

In the fall of 1957 I had recorded eleven rock painting

to work their way through university with Frontier

sites in Quetico Provincial Park. I had heard of three or

College. Christopher got his bush work experience during

four outside the park and could also recall the Blindfold

a summer with the Junior Rangers.

Lake site, mentioned above. I decided that next summer I

From 1959 to 1965, Peter and Christopher alternated

would record all the remaining sites in Ontario and

as my field assistants in work that extended from the

adjacent Minnesota. The Royal Ontario Museum was

foothills of the Rockies to the Atlantic coast. In the early

pleased with my report and with the watercolour

years, one major problem plagued my field work. How

reproductions that I had brought back. They had no

should I record the pictographs? I took slides of

trouble persuading the Quetico Foundation to put up the

everything, but these did not have the accuracy and scale

funds for a second summer.

of larger representations. I wanted to trace the figures

In the meantime I wrote an article about pictographs

directly onto some medium. I thought of acetate sheets

for The Beaver magazine. This brought in over thirty

and ordinary tracing paper, but these were difficult to

letters from across Canada. The letters, which came from

handle from a canoe at the water's edge. Then I thought

as far away as British Columbia, made it clear that I had

of using rice paper and Conte crayon. The idea was to

more work ahead of me than I had bargained for. I also

select a crayon that had a shade most closely matching a

wrote the president of Volkswagen Canada and

pictograph, then applying the crayon to the figure as

astonished the local VW agency by having a deluxe

exactly as I could. Then I would apply the rice paper to

minibus purchase approved at wholesale prices!

the figure, dampen it with a sponge, and rub the figure

The second expedition included Irene, Peter and his

lightly. This had the effect of "pulling" a reverse print of

exchange guest from Quebec, and Christopher, who had

the pictograph from the rock—without damaging the

just turned seven. Kee, now seventeen, went with us as far

original I hasten to add.

as Blind River, where we dropped him, with five dollars in

When I tried this technique in the field, it didn't work

his pocket, to look for work. Donner, meanwhile, had a

all that well, although I did get a successful transfer of an

steady job at Elliott Lake where he worked in a uranium

elaborate canoe at the Pictured Lake site near Thunder 160

• Daylight in the Swamp • Bay. However, the next dozen sites were in Minnesota.

and rock paintings then known in Alberta. I've combed

The last of these were petroglyphs, drawings incised in

the Shield woodlands from Great Slave Lake in the

horizontal stone instead of painted on rock. It was my

northwest to Lake Mistassini in Quebec and south into

first experience with petroglyphs.

Minnesota. I've also visited clusters of petroglyph sites in

I had just got my sponge and paper ready, with a cup

Nova Scotia and the B. C. coast. Yet, after one look at the

of water handy, to try the experiment, when Chris came

files on rock art at the National Museum of Man in

exuberantly along and, not noticing the cup, kicked it

Ottawa, I realized that British Columbia was so rich in

over. The water spilled onto a sheet of rice paper that had

coastal petroglyphs and the interior so rich in rock

been lying, quite accidentally, over a petroglyph. Presto!

paintings, that it would be presumptuous to cross the

The paper became completely transparent, revealing the

Rockies. After all, I'm not the only pebble on the

form beneath. I traced the figure directly onto the paper.

pictographic beach.

The technique worked just as well on the vertical rock

It's true that I was a loner for the first few years but

faces of pictographs. I found that if I held the paper over

even then John Corner, a British Columbian researcher,

the rock, then went over it with a wet sponge, it would

had been recording pictographs in the B.C. interior and

cling to the rock, following every bump and cranny, until

Edward Meade, another B.C. researcher, had worked on

I traced an outline of each figure. The technique failed

coastal petroglyphs. By the late 1960s, several others had

only on the very faintest pictographs. It provided me,

joined the field, including Tim Jones and Zenon

moreover, with an exact size outline, unaffected by the

Pohorecky at the University of Saskatchewan, Ken

surface variations or oblique angles that affect most

Dawson at Lakehead University, Romas and Joan

photographs.

Vastokas at Trent University, Brian Molyneaux at the

Sometimes, in reply to casual acquaintances who ask

Royal Ontario Museum, and Gilles Tasse at the University

me, with no real interest, what I do, I have an answer

of Quebec. By 1969 there were enough individuals

ready: "It so happens that I'm the greatest living authority

infected by pictograph fever to launch an informal

on aboriginal art in Boreal North America east of the

organization under the auspices of K.C.A. Dawson at

Rockies." To be specific, I have visited, as of 1978, exactly

Lakehead University. We decided to call the new

three hundred and one rock art sites in Canada and the

organization the Canadian Rock Art Research Associates.

adjacent American states. I have personally recorded all

Membership embraced a wide variety of backgrounds:

but nine of these.

artists, archaeologists, art historians, lab technicians,

Between 1959 and 1963 I recorded all the petroglyphs 161

conservation scientists, and even an apiarist! At this

• Daylight in the Swamp • writing there are more than thirty associates, of whom a

Almost invariably, pictographs were painted on

full third are active in one way or another. The study has

vertical or near-vertical rock faces next to the water,

turned out to be very complex: the research into the

occasionally on large boulders but usually on cliffs. Often,

problem of dating the sites is especially so.

the sites seem associated with places that have a special

Who painted the pictographs and how did they do it?

quality, not always easy to put into words. There may be a

Undoubtedly, they were drawn by aboriginal people in

large cleft in the rock nearby or a waterfall, or the setting

response to special events or spiritual experiences,

itself may have an eerie feeling, perhaps an unearthly

presumably most often by the shaman or his colleagues.

quiet. Often, the cliff itself is the most massive formation

The actual materials seem to have been red ochre as the

of rock for miles around.

pigment, and fish oil, or on occasion spit, as the binder.

Pictographic subjects range from hand-prints and

There seems little doubt that the Shield aborigines knew

smears to more or less naturalistic renderings of humans

how to heat the yellow ochre found in ferric earth deposits

and animals. Snakes, water birds, bears, wolves, foxes,

to the anhydrous form, red oxide. It was at La Ronge in

turtles, deer, moose, horses, and further east even bison,

northern Saskatchewan that a Cree gentleman by the

may be found on the rock faces.

name of B-Amos Ratt told me how he took earth from a

Beside these natural forms, you also see a wide variety

deposit on the Churchill River, reddened it by bringing it

of supernatural beings. There is the thunderbird who lives

to a white heat in a frying pan, then mixed it with oil from

in the sky and the "water-lion" Mishipizhiw, who dwells in

a whitefish. He had used the resulting reddish-brown

and controls the waters. Also called the "great lynx,"

paint to waterproof his log cabin and his paddles.

Mishipizhiw especially prefers fast or troubled waters,

Other reports single out sturgeon oil as the binder.

where he may be propitiated, perhaps, by a gift of tobacco.

However, the oil as a binder may not have been strictly

Other supernatural beings included the mysterious

necessary in the long run. After all, the iron in the ochre

Maymaygwayshi. The Cree describe them as small

has a natural affinity with many of the minerals in

creatures, about three feet high, who live inside the rock.

granite and it will bond, in time, to almost any granitic

The Ojibwa refer to them as ghosts or spirits. In general,

rock face. On several sites I have seen evidence of the

the Maymaygwayshi are thought to live behind rock faces

paint running, as if blowing rain had partially dissolved

by the water, especially those where cracks or shallow

it before it set. This suggests that saliva may have made a

caves suggest an entrance. They are fond of fish and

convenient if inferior binder if fish happened not to be

frequently steal them from nets. They are extremely shy,

available at the moment.

however, owing to faces that, according to some Natives, 762

Figure 55. Pictographs of naturalistic beings

Figure 56, Pictographs of supernatural beings

• Daylight in the Swamp • are covered with fur. According to others, the

below show two of the site faces and the pictographs on

Maymaygwayshi lack noses.

them. Stippling gives the general effect, but the

Most of the evidence I have seen so far suggests that many of the rock paintings represented dreams, and

paintings themselves, of course, are in solid, if somewhat faded ochre.

were intended to enhance their effect. From this point of

Face IX has some easily recognizable animal figures on

view the distinction between naturalistic and

it, including a caribou with its spreading antlers and a

supernatural forms is probably spurious. At Grassy

moose with its rack and chin-bell. The elongated vertical

Narrows on the Winnipeg River, Johnny Loon sat by his

figure just might be a water bird, and the humanoid

drying nets. "That's what they dreamed of, the ones that

figure at the top represents either a person or a spirit in

drawed." Francis Tom at Sioux Narrows was equally

the form of a person. The circle with rays descending

positive. "A lot of those guys, they done some fasting

might refer to the sun, a weather element, or something

where they have those paintings ... whatever you see on

that no one but initiates would recognize. The horned

the paintings, that's what they seen in their dreams. I

beast on the left, however, is most probably a variant

hear this from my grandfather and dad and others, too.

rendering of Mishipizhiw, the water lion or great lynx.

That's why I put tobacco there." Other native people,

You may compare it with the Mishipizhiw from the

however, are equally sure that the Maymaygwayshi

earlier examples only to discover that the points along the

themselves are the real artists.

back are missing.

Perhaps a visit to a typical site will tie some of these

Face VII is more mysterious. Here are what seem to be

threads together in the reader's mind. In the previous

canoes with people in them, a moose, two crosses (one on

chapter I mentioned the visit that Irene and I made in

its side), several human figures, and, just above a crack

1942 to Fairy Point on Lake Missinaibi. I promised to

near some tally marks, a horned figure. This may or may

revisit the site in the present chapter.

not represent a Maymaygwayshi, partially lost through

Lake Missinaibi lies a little less than fifty miles north (and a bit west) of Chapleau, Ontario. At Fairy Point,

fading. Most of this particular face occupies a slab of rock that is separated from the surrounding cliff by cracks.

enormous cliffs dominate the lake. Near their base, there

I wish I could roll back the curtain of mystery and

are nine separate faces or areas where you may find

make their meaning plain, but that has been the hard part

pictographs. The site is atypically large in this respect,

of pictograph research. In pursuit of meanings, I have

but the figures themselves show the usual blend of the

interviewed over a hundred elders and knowledgeable

recognizable and the indecipherable. The illustrations

native people about pictographs, dreams, legends, beliefs,

164

Figure 57. Pictographs - Fairy Point, Face IX

Figure 58, P i c t o g r a p h s - Fairy Point, Face

• Daylight in the Swamp • anything I could get my hands on. In particular, I have

knew the country better than I did. As we descended the

tried to find out all I could about the Midaywaywin

Churchill River, near the end of my stay, we came to

spiritual system, it being closely tied to the central

Silent Rapids. In other rapids I had always paddled hard

mystery of the rock paintings.

to gain steerage way in the current, following where the

Two examples stand out as noteworthy.

current was strongest. But just as we were nearing the end

In the settlement of La Ronge, in northern

of the fall, I found the canoe turning toward a backwash,

Saskatchewan, there are so many Ratt families that

where water churned against the river. I tried to pull the

residents have taken to putting an alphabetic prefix in

bow straight, only to discover that A-Joe was deliberately

front of their first name. I never met B-Joe Ratt, but one

heading for the backwash. Thanks to my extra hard

A-Joe Ratt, having heard from his father, B-Amos Ratt,

paddling, we nearly capsized.

that I was looking for pictograph sites, volunteered to

As soon as we landed below the falls, A-Joe made me

show me no less than six I'd never seen before. A-Joe Ratt

sit in the bottom of the canoe as a passenger. We then

was not a shaman, it seemed. In fact, people had warned

continued and A-Joe handled the next bit of fast water

me that he was the biggest con-man in La Ronge. It was

alone. Much later, he explained that he had gone for the

therefore with some trepidation that I arranged a flight

backwater because an evil manitou dwelt in the middle of

for us up to Eulas Lake in the Churchill area, where A-Joe

Silent Rapids.

had a fishing cabin. The plane from Natural Resources flew me, A-Joe and my canoe up to Eulas Lake.

A key informant for my book, Sacred Scrolls of the Southern Ojibway, was James Redsky, Senior.

In the next four days, A-Joe and I visited the six spots

Eshquaykeeshik (Equal Sky), as Redsky is known in

that he had earlier pinpointed on a topographical map.

Ojibway, was one of the last practitioners of the Miday

The sites were all exactly where he said they were. More

religion at Shoal Lake, west of Thunder Bay. He was

than this, A-Joe filled me in on more natural history,

invaluable in showing me the meanings of some of the

from animals tracks to plants, than I could possibly

instruction scrolls I had come across and copied during

remember. I can recall only fragments, such as his

my travels.

description of the seven calls of the loon. The seventh call, said A-Joe, "he only makes when he sees an eagle, He's saying,'You are the king.'"

He told me how, when he was a child, a missionary once told him, "Your religion is bad." How could the Midaywaywin, with its focus on

There was more than mere lore to A-Joe. Normally I

physical and spiritual health, be bad, the boy asked

don't give the stern of my canoe to anyone, but A-Joe

himself. Redsky's uncle, Baldhead, was the most

166

• Daylight in the Swamp • prestigious Miday practitioner, and chief shaman in the

traditions onto the reserve. It was symptomatic that

annual initiation ceremonies. As Redsky described it,

Redsky's ceremony, which I had been invited to watch

Baldhead was a "man who knew EV-er-y-thing," rolling

and record, was attended only women and children. The

the syllables with a solemnity that gave a vastly broader

Minister of Family and Social Services was visiting that

meaning to the word. A complete knowledge of Miday

very afternoon and the men considered it more

rites included ways to convey sickness or even death to

important to air their grievances with him than to take

certain people. Such destructive sorcery was but one of

part in a ceremony that they no longer understood or

the temptations on the path. The scrolls give a clear

cared about.

warning. Beside the zigzag path of life that emerges from

The ceremony, though abbreviated, bore at least some

the fourth-degree lodge, a snake diverges from the final

elements of Miday ritual. Redsky had built a sacred lodge,

turn, a clear symbol of the disaster that overtakes initiates

or Midaywegun, a rectangle of earth about fourteen by

who misuse the spiritual powers conferred on them.

forty feet with an east-west orientation. The walls of the

In spite of some negative experiences with Christians,

lodge, about two feet high, were constructed of brush and

Redsky succeeded in convincing himself that it would be

stakes. A pole with a thhunderbird attached to the top

possible to unite Christianity with the Miday religion by

stood in the centre of the lodge. Near the base of the pole,

taking the best from both. He seemed well on his way to

Redsky had placed a large stone.

success when he persuaded the Presbyterians to build

By eleven-thirty in the morning, the ceremony was to

their new mission church a stone's throw from the site of

have begun, but no one had showed up yet! Suddenly, we

the annual Miday ceremonies. Peter and I arrived to

heard Redsky singing and shaking his sacred rattle. We

observe and record the ceremony (at Redsky's invitation)

turned to see him limping toward the lodge, entering the

in June of 1969, shortly after Redsky completed a Miday

east entrance alone. Normally, the shaman would have

Lodge hard by the church.

four assistants, but none had shown up. His son Ken, who

Evil days had fallen on the Shoal Lake community. It

was to have been there, had rushed off to the hospital that

was now a simple matter to drive over to Kenora, cash a

morning, his young wife in labour pains. Another

family allowance cheque, and buy enough liquor to have a

assistant had the only functioning drum, but he hadn't

real "party." Drinking and violence had been steadily

shown up either.

growing since the fifties. Meanwhile, graduates of the

Redsky went as far as the west entrance, reserved for

Presbyterian residential school had learned to scorn their

manitous, and stopped there. "Now it's open," he said. He

mother tongue and increasingly brought "white"

disappeared into the schoolhouse. A moment later he

167

• Daylight in the Swamp • reappeared with a steaming pot of rice and raisins, food

initiate by the name of Mrs. Greene. She had brought a

for the Maymaygwayshi. He set the pot beside the stone

beef hash, which everyone ate while she opened her

by the pole and looked around, as though missing

Miday bag and displayed the contents: meegis shells,

something. I produced two packages of fine-cut tobacco

meegis cloths, a large Miday scroll, a smaller one, and a

and Redsky was delighted. He sprinkled the stone and

few smaller items I didn't get to see closely.

some coloured sticks that lay upon it liberally with tobacco.

Sometime in this period, Redsky, without any observable utterance or gesture, dedicated the offerings

Redsky seated himself against the middle of the south

to the Maymaygwayshi. It was not clear to Peter or me

wall opposite the pole. Then the Presbyterian minister

just when the ceremony ended, but by two-fifteen in the

and his son joined us. They joined Peter and me in the

afternoon, Mrs. Greene and Mr. Wahpiosk began to

northeast corner of the midaywegun. As women and

pack up the Miday material and the others began to

children began to arrive from the reserve, Redsky made a

leave.

dissertation on the meaning of the Miday religion, then

Redshy was not in the best of health. He limped from

stood up, produced a mickey of rye whiskey, and

arthritis, and he had split open one of his shoes to

proceeded around the midaywegun, pouring some into a

accomodate the swelling on the ball of his big toe. He also

bowl for each participant. It resembled a communion

suffered from frequent dizzy spells. Was this to be the last

service but Redsky had already told me that the whiskey

Miday ceremony?

was a substitute for the dog's blood used in the original

Not until the following morning, however, did I get

ritual. With each sip of whiskey, Redsky distributed a little

the full picture of just how much things were changing.

tobacco. He noticed some boys watching with interest

My son Peter and I had slept in the schoolhouse that

from the church steps, and beckoned them over. The boys

night, and the next morning we took our gear down to

all came in by the forbidden west entrance, but this didn't

the dock to await a boat that would take us out. The dock

seem to bother Redsky. By now some thirty-four souls sat

belonged to the storekeeper who lived nearby.

around the Miday lodge. One adult male had joined us,

Presently, the man came down to the dock but, instead

one Robert Wahpiosk. It was he who served the rice and

of exchanging pleasantries, he told me we were

raisins to everyone.

trespassing and to get the hell off his dock. In the heated

Then Redsky delivered a short homily, including a

conversation that followed, he accused me of "making

thanksgiving for the past year and a prayer for health and

fun" of the Midaywaywin. I assured him that I was

good fortune in the coming year. Redsky had a female

attempting the very opposite.

168

Daylight in the Swamp "Your children are losing their language and religion. I'm trying ..." "Don't you criticize my children!" He gave me a shove and I tumbled to the ground. In his anger he obviously thought I meant his own children rather than the Ojibway children, generally. Just then Peter came over the rise, bearing the last load from the schoolhouse. The storekeeper decided to fade away. When he heard what had happened, Redsky made a cryptic comment. "Don't worry. We'll fix him." He hailed a passing motorboat and saw us off. James Redsky had been invaluable in helping me interpret the Miday scrolls. Through the scrolls, I hoped to learn something about the meaning of the pictographs. Every scroll contains a configuration of separate graphic symbols that together serve to remind the knowledgeable reader of certain legends and myths. Perhaps the pictographs also serve as memory aids or memorials, images of forgotten dreams. As for Redsky, he may have failed to unite the two religions of his life, but it was a magnificent failure. He was a warrior in the true sense and Redsky has earned a place among the great ones of his people.

169

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chapter fourteen

IslandDqQuest

/ looked at Manitowik but the whole damn Lake has been

Gull Lake was just inside the Canadian Shield, it wasn't

flooded by a lumber dam or a power dam, I don't give a

quite what we had in mind.

damn which.

We had already decided what qualities our summer

From a letter to Irene, dated June 1942

dream home would have. First, it would be an island, Loon Island.

It was in the early 1940s that I finally agreed with Irene that we needed a place in the bush we could call our own. Until then, while Irene yearned for a fixed place in the bush, I had temporized. Wasn't the whole north our "home"? Besides, no matter where we ended up, it was sure to be flooded, sooner or later, by tourists of one kind or another... On the other hand, I agreed that a summer home in the right place would make an ideal launching site for canoe trips. It would also provide fond memories of a summer home, like those I enjoy of Sand Lake. In the meantime, we had grabbed vacations when and where we could, including a few weeks at Gull Lake where Irene's sister Florence Ecclestone had some cabins. Although

171

Figure 59. Christmas card made by Selwyn Dewdney, 1942

• Daylight in the Swamp • Wherever our island might be, it would not be leased, but owned outright. In the 1940s you could buy Crown

what was left of the day, so we would camp overnight. Ah, the energy of youth!

land almost anywhere in Canada for a nominal price plus

Searching the map further north, I had also discovered

a commitment to put up some kind of building on the

Lake Missinaibi, headwater of the the Missinaibi River,

property. Our island would be on an isolated lake without

Besides reminding me of my Geological Survey days, it

road access. This would eliminate other summer residents

looked promising as an alternative dream lake. I decided

and tourists. It would also be far enough from the

to take a look at Missinaibi first, then Little Wawa.

mainland shore to exclude bears, and small enough that

When high school ended that spring I plundered the

on a windy day all the flies would blow away. The

bank account of money earned from the sale of paintings,

surrounding country would offer a variety of interesting

then borrowed the extra I needed to buy a canoe and a

canoe routes. The island itself would have a nice sandy

return railway ticket to Nicholson on Lake Windermere.

beach for the kids, a beach you could land a canoe on. It

As soon as summer began, Irene would drop the kids,

would have an outcrop of precambrian rock or maybe be Donner and Keewatin, with her parents in Kitchener, such an outcrop. If it weren't be asking too much, the

then come up to Nicholson to meet me. I bought the

island would also have a stand of God's most beautiful

canoe at Eaton's in Toronto, had her shipped to the town

tree, the white pine. Failing that, we'd settle for a stand of

of Missanabie, following her two weeks later,

red pine or, at the very least, a mixed stand of spruce, jackpine, birch and poplar.

En route to Missanabie, I reached Chapleau, where I had to change trains from the transcontinental to the

In the winter of 1941-42,1 pored over my collection of

local. I put in my wait by striking up a conversation with

topographical maps, seeking this special combination of

the express agent. Chapleau was then a town of some

features. After locating and rejecting a dozen possible

1800 souls, a population almost totally dependent on the

sites, I thought I had found exactly what I was looking

CPR's divisional point operation there,

for, a lake called Little Wawa in the Chapleau area. The

The agent showed me a barbell that someone in the

lake was peppered with islands, had an irregular shoreline

machine shop had made for him out of two locomotive

suggesting plentiful outcrops, and no map symbols to

pistons. He demonstrated the ease with which he could

suggest so much as a trapper's cabin. It was a bit far from

press them. Dropped with a great thump on the floor,

the nearest rail stop, about fifteen miles. Nevertheless, we

they sounded heavy.

would get off the train there, buy groceries, and set out

"Have a try. Usta do that twenty times a day. There's

for Little Wawa. We might not make the fifteen miles in

only three fellas in Chapleau can lift that." I tried to lift 772

Daylight in the Swamp Figure 60, Missinaibie, 1942

the barbell. "No. You gotta bend your knees and straighten out your arms, same time."

Missanabie, hardly more than a CPR whistle stop, stood on the north shore of Dog Lake which was joined

I took off my coat and, by the third try, had mastered

by a stream to neighbouring Manitowik Lake. Travelling

it. I expected him to be as surprised as I was, or perhaps

for the first time with Olga, I began reconoitering for

annoyed, but he grinned delightedly, pleased at his

Loon Island, then wrote the sad report, quoted at the

success as a teacher.

head of this chapter, to Irene.

I caught the local, and a half hour later I descended

There wasn't a decent campsite on the whole lake.

onto the Missanabie station platform. My new canoe had

Nevertheless I spent a week in the area, getting in some

been shipped two weeks earlier and awaited me patiently

good sketching. I can recall only one of my oil sketches. I

in the baggage room. The station master, one Irving

began the painting on a hot, muggy day with a steamy

Layton [sic], ushered me into the semi-dark where the

haze that lingered on and on. This weather continued for

new canoe sat packed in straw and sewn into sacking. My

several days. I laboured on the painting until I became

hands trembled as I cut the binding and tenderly stripped

frantic for some clear, northern air.

her coverings away. She lay there in the semi-dark in all

The subject was a creek that flowed into the lake. I

her sleek beauty. Olga. Why "Olga"? We had decided to

deliberately set myself the exercise of catching the

give this name to our first daughter, whenever she might

sunlight on the stones under the water. I began to curse

come. For Irene, the name evoked the Russia of

myself for choosing such a difficult subject but I stayed

Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy of which she was so fond.

with it. When I had finally finished, it still seemed a lack-

173

• Daylight in the Swamp • lustre effort. Only when I got home again and reviewed

Jack told me how he spent his winters in Toronto.

the summer's work did I discover that it was one of the

Every spring at breakup he would take the train north, get

best things I'd done that summer.

off at some station on one of the main lines, then spend

During my explorations of Manitowik Lake, I must

the summer prospecting an area of a thousand square

have passed within yards of a pictograph site, completely

miles. By the end of the season he would arrive at the

unaware of its presence. Years later, when I began

other main line and take the train home.

pictographic research, I learned that at the base of a

Jack also told me about some rock paintings at a place

certain high rock at the west end of Manitouwik there

called Fairy Point on Lake Missinaibi. I became curious to

was an assemblage of aboriginal rock paintings. I never

see whether they would turn out to resemble the ones on

noticed them because, thanks to the dam, only the fish

faraway Blindfold Lake, south of Kenora. In the morning

could see them.

I said goodbye to Jack and set out for Lake Missinaibi,

A week after arriving in Missanabie, I set out for Lake

paddling and portaging the remaining miles. The lake

Missinaibi. On the way I puzzled over the name. The

was large and open, with long vistas. It was ten miles

station master at Missanabie had told me that the name

long, just large enough to show up on most atlases of

of the town (and, presumably the lake) had originated as

Canada. I was aware, as I paddled, of the lake's history,

a tribute to a certain nurse back in the days when the

how it had been on a major fur route in the days when

town was under construction. Miss Anabie. But I suspect

fur brigades travelled out to Moose Factory to meet the

that the name of the Lake is simply a corruption of the

Hudson's Bay Company ships.

Algonkian word Mazinahbikaung, or "place of pictures."

By nightfall I had found Fairy Point, an engaging

Paddling up Crooked Lake, I came upon the camp

subject to paint, and an ideal campsite. The rock art held

where I met a seasoned prospector and generally fabulous

me. Similar to the Blindfold Lake paintings, but different.

character by the name of Jack Ennis. This was the same

I paddled to the east side of Missinaibi to discover a

Jack Ennis who would offer me the bush job that took me

perfect tumble of water, Whitefish Falls, where the Little

north again the next year (see Chapter 10). Although I

Missinaibi River emptied into the lake. And not far off, a

wouldn't compare my limited experience with his decades

beautiful sandy spit with a new growth of cedar. Here I

of bush travel, we quickly discovered our common

pitched my tent, cooked some supper, and just had time

passion and hit it off very quickly. I ended by joining him

to enjoy the evening frolics of two beavers who lived in a

for supper. We got talking and soon it was too late to

nearby lodge.

travel, so I stayed for the night.

I wanted to spend a few days at the waterfall, but time 774

• Daylight in the Swamp • was growing short. I had yet to find Loon Island, and

couldn't remember had been out in a canoe that subsided

Irene was due to come up in less than two weeks. I

gently under the waves. This created a distinct feeling of

paddled back out to Missanabie and caught the first local

doom so I consulted my orange oracle: if I could peel an

south, packing Olga into the baggage car. I got off at the

orange in one continuous peeling, it was a good omen. If

town of Nicholson where I provisioned at the Austin

at some point the peel nearly broke, I took it as a warning

Lumber Company store.

that the prospect might have some difficulty. If it actually

Within the hour, I was on my way to Little Wawa, the

broke, the prospect was doomed.

ideal lake, chosen from my topographical maps the

The peeling broke almost immediately. Mosquitoes

previous winter. Here I would find Loon Island. I paddled

swarmed about me in that hell-hole of a country. I

down a long channel of Windermere called Grassy Inlet,

struck camp and set out for Little Wawa only to discover

then came to a portage that began beside a steep, twelve-

that the map had been wrong. There was not one more

foot falls. The portage took me past a pond that was

portage into our dream-lake, but four more. When at

almost a lake, then up into completely different country,

last I stood on the sandy shore of Little Wawa, I looked

Here was Grazing River, as dismal a bit of water as I'd

all around. Nothing but beaches and no rocks of any

ever seen. A lumber dam had flooded out the shores

description. I launched the canoe and carefully explored

leaving dead, bleached tree skeletons leaning at all angles,

the lake. It turned out to be so shallow that I could see

There was a hot, southwest wind that threatened rain. I

its sandy bottom wherever I paddled. I found the

had just started the second portage, when thunder began

forestry cabin I'd seen on the map but it was a wreck,

to roll across the sky. I raced to get up the tent and start a

The only rocks I found were boulders, three in total,

fire before the rain began. I pitched the tent on a slope,

Around and around I went, back and forth. "Oh God," I

the only place I could find in that God-forsaken dump,

prayed, "couldn't you give me just one island made of

finishing just as the rain started. Sitting in the tent, I

rock?" But God wouldn't. That was the last of Little

attempted some morale-boosting. In spite of the

Wawa I would see for thirty years.

miserable landscape, our dream island lay just ahead. The rain lasted into the evening so I camped for the night.

Little Wawa was really a lovely little lake in its own peculiar way and it was filled with loons. The map had

The next morning I awoke from a dream in which

been right about the islands. There were lots of them, all

someone was offering a hot-water bottle to revive Irene. I

alike. But everywhere I went on that lake I could see only

had rescued her from the bottom of a lake. Irene, my

sand and gravel shores nearly crowded out of existence by

mother, one of my brothers, and some other people I

a dense growth of trees. I vowed I would never again

175

• Daylight in the Swamp • made the mistake of trying to guess the character of a Canadian Shield lake by its outline on a map.

River, joining the Moose River to emerge on James Bay. Out on the water, we could easily make out the

Nine days later I pitched my tent on the shore of

rocky point that split West Bay from the main lake. As

Nicholson Bay. Next morning the transcontinental pulled

we approached the big cliffs, they loomed overhead in

into Nicholson and there was Irene, just as I landed,

the early evening sun. We caught a little of that

crossing the tracks and running toward the beach. She

aboriginal awe, both of the overhanging masses of rock

wore calf-length culottes, a sweatshirt, and she carried a

and of the figures themselves. The paintings were

briefcase. Three year old Donner and baby Kee were safe

overgrown here and there by vivid splashes of orange

with their Kitchener grandparents, Olga was waiting and

lichen. It was getting late, however. I promised myself a

we were free!

sketch of the site, and we made our way to the same

We camped on an island I had discovered half way

campsite I had used at Whitefish Falls. Again a perfect

down Grazing Inlet. The island had a perfect campsite

evening. Irene was charmed by my beaver friends. They

and we stayed there a week. Then we took the train to

cavorted in the water around our camp, slapping their

Missanabie with Olga in the baggage car. We camped on

tails on the water with a sound like a small boulder

the shore of Dog Lake right across from the Missanabie

plunging into the water. In the morning we could hear

station, with lots of time to paddle around and visit. We

the beaver kittens whimpering under the solid mud and

encountered George Sanders, an eighty-year-old Ojibway

stick roof of their lodge.

whom I asked about the rock paintings on Lake

We spent four wonderful days at the Whitefish Falls

Missinaibi. He had grown up in the area but even when

campsite. We swam every day. Irene soaked in the sun and

he was a small boy the oldest people had no idea who had

made the meals, assisted by a spring that delivered ice-

made the inscriptions. We met another old-timer who

cold water not far from the campsite. I developed a

told us that we had better stay away from the big rock. He

passable oil-sketch of Whitefish Falls. Whenever we

claimed that "a bull moose got sucked down right by

wanted fish for supper, I would trawl for about ten

them pictures."

minutes in the bay with nothing more complicated than a

The next day, we set out for Missinaibi. Our last portage took us indiscernibly over the divide between the

line, a sinker, and a spinner. That's all it took to haul in a fine jackfish or pickerel.

Arctic and Atlantic drainage basins. Dog Lake drained

We took a walk over the portage around the falls.

southwest into the Michipicoten system and Lake

Along the trail we had glimpses of the Little Missinaibi

Superior. Missinaibi Lake flowed into the Missinaibi

River, a series of stony terraces that wouldn't take a

176

• Daylight in the Swamp • loaded canoe. Years later our oldest son, Donner, would

brightness of the sky, then getting gloomier by the

attempt this river with his wife, Victoria. They would

minute. The cross-waves reflected from the cliff chopped

break their hearts paddling, lifting and dragging their

the water up into mounds that would form suddenly

canoe for the first few miles only to decide that this was

beneath the canoe, tossing us like a cork. The squall was

not the holiday they had come for.

getting nearer, more wind, bigger waves, blacker sky.

Spying a cliff near the entrance to our bay, Irene was sure there would be pictographs on it. And so there were.

Finally, Irene was ready as we pulled alongside the pictographs.

I made careful copies of them, the first time I had ever

One snap and we were off, Irene leaping to her seat to

bothered to record a pictograph. In 1957, I would begin

paddle. It was as exciting a bit of water as we were ever to

in earnest.

paddle together. If George Sanders or the other old-timer

On the fifth day we decided it was time to pull up

back in Missinaibi had seen it, they would have nodded

stakes and head for home. Irene missed her babies and

to each other. No good is likely to come from a visit to

her parents would undoubtedly be looking for relief. We

Fairy Point.

decided to visit Fairy Point on our way out to photograph

By 1943, the war was becoming a nightmare, even in

the rock paintings. A strong southwest wind blew up the

sheltered London, Ontario. There was the same pull

long arm of the lake, freshening as the hours went by.

towards God's country but the teacher's privileged two-

With Olga fully loaded for the trip to Missinaibi, we

month holiday was better spent seeking gainful

worked our way along the east shore of the lake, taking

employment. The dream of Loon Island began gradually

full advantage of what little lee it offered, until we were in

to fade from our minds, the search postponed until the

position for a dash across open water to the point.

end of the war, whenever that might be.

We had intended to spend the morning there, but that

(I have only visited the Whitefish Falls site once since

was now out of the question. Out of the sheltering lee, we

that first idyll. In 1976, my nineteenth year of recording

tossed on big rollers, broadside to the canoe. Olga took

aboriginal rock art across Canada, I visited Lake

them gallantly, even though heavily loaded. Nearing the

Missinaibi to find that the Ontario Ministry of Natural

point, I saw a squall in the making a mile down the lake. I

Resources had opened a new provincial park on the

had Irene sit in the bottom of the canoe and get the

northeast shore of the Lake. The park had campsites for

camera ready while I tried to navigate the tricky water

campers and canoers alike. You could drive to the new

just opposite the cliff. There were no exposure meters in

park on a road from Chapleau. With an influx of new

those days. Irene had to set the f-stop according to the

visitors, the best campsite on the lake, the place of our

177

• Daylight in the Swamp • former joy, had become somewhat overused. The lovely

Ministry of Natural Resources. It was a novel experience

row of cedars had been killed by high water and the

to travel with four individuals, all of whom had different

campsite had sprouted signs that forbade cooking fires

but firm ideas on every conceivable question. There were

and picnicking. Only Whitefish Falls, source of the Little

arguments about where to camp, even about which

Missinaibi River, remained as it had been.)

channel to follow.

I would see Jack Ennis again on the following summer,

On the second last day of the trip we stopped at

as I related in Chapter 11. The packing job kept me too

Blindfold Lake, visited the original pictograph site, then

busy to search for our island home.

discovered another painting, small and badly flaked,

Dreams of a northern retreat resurfaced again in 1967,

below the dam. We camped that night on a sandy point

when Irene suggested that I take the four sons on a canoe

where two neglected cottages quietly mouldered. It was

trip in Lake of the Woods as a centennial project. Since

not Loon Island, not even an island at all, but we went

1957 I had been free to travel the land to search for and

overboard for it when we discovered that the beach was

record aboriginal rock paintings. Irene made this possible

littered with artefacts: sherds, points, scrapers. It was

by filling in for me as an art therapist at Westminster

obviously a favourite campsite in earlier times. You could

Hospital and at the Ontario Psychiatric Hospital during

only get there by water, too, with heavy bush between the

my absence. In the early summer of 1967 I took Irene to

point and the nearest road.

Expo '67. Then we drove out to Nova Scotia to spend a

We enthusiastically discussed buying the place so,

few days camping at the Kejimkujik petroglyph site in

when we got back to Kenora, we looked up the owner of

Nova Scotia.

the property. Back in London, I telephoned him. Alas!

I met my four sons late in the summer at Sioux Narrows on Lake of the Woods. We planned to travel

That particular dream died a swift death when he told me he wanted $35,000 for the place.

south to Sunset Channel, around to Yellow Girl, then

Since 1957 I had been spending my summers on field

back to Kenora. We had a week of perfect weather and a

trips to find and record pictograph sites, but by the 1970s

wind that obliged us by blowing in whatever direction we

I was beginning to slow down a bit physically and Irene

happened to be travelling for five straight days. This also

still yearned for a summer getaway. Irene's friend Jane

made it possible for us to sail a total of eighty miles.

Bigelow suggested that we try a month at her mother's

We travelled in two canoes. Donner and Chris

cottage on Talon Lake, east of North Bay. Formerly a fall

manned the family canoe while Kee and Peter were my

hunting cabin, it had fallen into disuse. We enjoyed

crew in a seventeen foot canoe borrowed from the

ourselves fixing up the property, but Talon Lake was 178

• Daylight in the Swamp • already heavily inhabited with summer cottages, with

"just the place." He spoke glowingly of a long beach with

boats and water-skiers all too frequently visible.

a cabin on it, beautiful sunsets, and an owner eager to

In short, the "Bigelow Bungalow", as we called it, was only a Band-Aid on Irene's itch for a summer place of our

sell. We so warmed to the prospect that he decided to run us out there.

own. Again I tried the "whole north is ours" argument,

It still rained and the wind was blowing half a gale

but it didn't work. After all, I got to go on field trips for

across the lake. The all-metal double-hulled boat had a

up to two months every summer, while Irene stayed at

hundred-horsepower motor that propelled us at such a

home. It was time to find that island!

speed that each time we hit a big wave we became briefly

On a grey day in July, 1971, we detoured through

airborne! We arrived at the proprietor's site to find a

Chapleau on our way to Talon Lake. There, we visited the

beautiful long beach, a small outcrop of bedrock and

Ministry of Natural Resources office and got a list of

even a stand of red pine. This lot seemed all the more

cottage sites for lease in the district. I should explain that

desirable in contrast to the properties we had just

new provincial legislation had frozen all sales of Crown

inspected. We decided to make an offer. Later that

land indefinitely. As a result, the only properties you

summer after we returned from Talon Lake we tried to

could buy outright must already be owned by someone

get in touch with the owner in Michigan. But he was far

else. A pilot I knew had already acquired a property on

from eager to sell. All we got were delaying tactics. Once

Dog Lake and this is where we found three sites on the

again our dream faded.

Chapleau list, laid out side by side along one shore. We

Then, in the spring of 1972, came our break. The

decided to extend our detour by driving to Missanabie to

previous summer I had been on a pictograph expedition

have a look at the properties. When we arrived, it was

on my way through Chapleau. I telephoned Irene and

pouring rain. But we hired a kicker, donned our rainwear,

she suggested a visit to the local real estate office. That's

and were off to the property sites.

how I met Albert Tremblay. He said he would keep his

It was a fiasco. We found the properties, but there was

eye peeled.

no sand to speak of and no rock formations. On the way

The next May we got a call from Tremblay. He had two

back to Missanabie through the drizzle, we made a brave

properties in mind, a lot by the highway and an island out

attempt to convince ourselves that it could work. We

on Lake Windermere.

turned in the boat and went into the little hotel and beer

Irene and I drove up to Sudbury and caught a local

parlour to warm up and revive flagging spirits. Then we

train that would drop us at a small stop called Healey, a

got talking to the proprietor who told us that he knew

mere road-crossing in the middle of the bush very close

179

Figure 61. Boat Channel Island, 1977

• Daylight in the Swamp • to the southeastern arm of Lake Windermere. There

climbed an ancient path through the bush,

stood Tremblay, beside the tracks. He took us through a

The cabin, which turned out to be a squared-log affair

small glade of pines to a fishing camp called Happy Day

about sixteen by twenty feet, seemed to be in good shape.

Lodge. Albert introduced us to the camp's proprietor, a

The path led directly onto a wooden porch that ended at

grizzled and taciturn fellow by the name of Len

a screen door. Here we could look over a railing at the

Houghton. Happy Day Lodge consisted of some dozen

rock below. Inside, the cabin was snug, partitioned into a

cabins and a log house where Len lived and conducted

small bedroom in the northwest corner and an L-shaped

camp business, including a small store, which, I noted,

living space. The kitchen occupied the north end of the

might be a handy source of casual supplies should the

L; there were two iceboxes and an old-fashioned cast-

island prove to be everything Albert said it was.

iron cooking stove. Along the south side of the cabin, a

I was prepared for disappointment, naturally, and

living-dining room charmed us immediately. It had a

when Albert's motor wouldn't start, it seemed like a bad

wood stove for heating, a plain wooden eating-table with

omen. We switched to a lodge fishing boat. About three

benches, a cot, and a row of windows that opened onto a

miles out from Happy Day, Windermere closed down to a

panorama of Lake Windermere itself, screened here and

single passage called the Narrows, then opened out into

there by red pines and birches. Looking out, we could see

the lake proper. We headed west for about a mile, then

no sign of human habitation anywhere on the lake. The

slowly turned north as we rounded the corner of the lake,

window screens fitted snugly. Everything fitted. It was

At first we did not see the island, but Albert kept pointing

snug. Irene and I looked at each other,

and shouting above the sound of the motor.

Albert took us around the island. We followed a trail

Then we saw it, half a mile away. There was some

that led to the north end. I had the pleasant sensation of

bedrock, a lot of trees, and a hint of red, the cabin roof,

being swallowed up by trees. I wouldn't even have known

Closer still, the island turned out to be much larger

I was on an island! The north end had some flat shelving

than I had expected, with a varied shoreline and even a

rock that led into the water by the makings of a beach,

few hints of beach. Albert took us into a shallow cove at

Here was a good spot for a second cabin,

the south end. He explained, over the sound of the

We returned to the south end again, went back down

idling motor, that there had a been a dock but the ice

to the little cove, then followed the path along the south

had carried most of it away. We landed in the cove and

shore past the cove and on to a flat shelf of rock, perfect

immediately set out to explore the island. Our first stop

for swimming. Around the corner, on the east shore, the

would be the cabin on the granite bluff above us. We

island was wild and overgrown. Here too was a bay full

181

Figure 62, Little Loon Island, from Peter's Point, pencil sketch, 1978

• Daylight in the Swamp • of boulders and a dense stand of birch and alder. Higher

northwest of Chapleau. Since the dam was built at Ear

up, where the island crowned, there was spruce and

Falls, Lac Seul has grown even larger and has become

jackpine. We clambered through the brush past the bay,

nearly as labyrinthine as Lake of the Woods.

then up a steep path to another granite bluff that commanded the northeastern corner of the island. We kept looking out over the lake as we went, watchful for other signs of human habitation. "I'm just bombed out!" confessed Irene. Tremblay pointed to the north. "That way's Nicholson, but you can't see it from here." The only sign of humanity was a short stretch of track to the northeast, the CPR transcontinental line, where it ran along the shore for a few hundred yards. But it was too late to discourage us. We both recognized our island home. "We'll take it," we said. The asking price was about $6,000. Irene, who had been saving her money for just such a purchase, was able to pay the lion's share of the price. I paid the rest. Ironically, Loon Island proved to be in the middle of a lake I had paddled many times. I must have looked at it more than once. Windermere is not a large lake, as Shield lakes go. It's only twelve miles long, and so broken up by islands, inlets, narrows and channels in every direction that there's no point in trying to describe its width. My new home in the bush reminded me of former homes. Lac Seul is larger than Lake Windermere. You'll find it readily on any road map, just west of Sioux Lookout. Windermere also shows up on the Ontario road map,

183

But, oh, God, where are the beautiful beaches and the glorious white pine stands of yesteryear?

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appendix Radio Memoirs of Canon Sanderson

Fairford until I was twelve years of age. Then I left home

[broadcast on CJRL Kenora in February, 1959]

to go to an industrial school for Indian children near Winnipeg. It was not an institution of correction as the

I was born at the Fairford Indian Reserve in Manitoba

name seems to be understood nowadays. Perhaps a

on the 5th of April in the year 1877. Both my parents

better word to use would be "technical school" but at

were Crees. My father was born at Cumberland House on

that time the name "Industrial" was used because trades

the Saskatchewan River in what is now the Province of

or other occupations were taught, as well as classroom

Saskatchewan in the year 1826, but was brought by his

work. I took up the printing trade and worked at it for

parents to the Red River Settlement while yet an infant,

six years. At the end of that time, armed with a letter of

where they settled and where he grew up. My mother's

recommendation from the principal of the school, I

parents came from Moose Factory on James Bay in what

went to the city to look for a job in some printing

is now known as Northern Ontario. But as her father was

establishment.

employed by the Hudson's Bay Company and moved

Before I got to the first place I had in mind, I met an

about from time to time to different posts, she was born

old clergyman whom I'd known from the time I was a

at Lac Seul in northwestern Ontario. While yet a child the

boy. He stopped and asked me where I was going. When I

family moved to the Red River at what is now St.

told him my errand, he asked if I had ever thought of

Andrews, Manitoba. There they settled and that is where

going in for the ministry of the Church. Now the ministry

my mother grew up.

of the Church was one thing I had always had in my

I got my start in school at the Mission School at

mind, even as a boy, to be a missionary among my own

185

• Daylight in the Swamp • people. I could see even then the need for missionaries to

young men came in and sat in one of the back pews.

the Indians, but how it was to come about for me to take

There was nothing strange about that but what I did find

the necessary training, I had no idea. My father, though

strange was the way they kept their eyes fixed on me all

making a comfortable living as a small farmer on the

through the service. It pleased me, of course, to think that

reserve, had not the means to help me through college,

I was making some impression and holding the attention

and of course I had none of my own.

of at least two of the congregation. After the service I took

When, therefore, I met my old friend and he asked me

the opportunity of having a word or two with the

if I had ever thought of going into the ministry, I could

congregation as they left. My two attentive friends were

truthfully and not on the spur of the moment, tell him

the last to go, but they stopped and asked if I had the

what had long been in my thoughts. After a short talk he

time, would I go over and see them at their own home. It

said he was just on his way to a meeting but for me not to

was just a one-roomed house and they had made it very

do anything more just now about trying to find a job and

comfortable and home-like. But what struck me when I

to come and see him at his home the next day.

went in was the number of weapons that decorated the

I could hardly wait for the next day, wondering what

walls: shotguns and rifles and revolvers, and even a sword

might be in store. But it came at last and in good time I

or two. I didn't ask them, but I wondered why so many

was at my good friend's home and without much waste of

deadly weapons. Then they told me their story.

time he told me that he had arranged for me to enter St.

They were two English boys who, after much thought,

John's College, Winnipeg, and when could I come? Not

had decided to seek their fortune in a new country and

having many worldly goods to arrange for, I told him that

chose Canada in which to make the venture. They knew

I could come in two days' time. I entered St. John's

very little about the country but when they decided on

College in September, 1896. In 1902 I was ordained into

Canada, they read up on what they could find about it.

the ministry of the Anglican Church in St. John's

And among their reading was some wild and woolly stuff

Cathedral by Archbishop Machray.

that told of painted warriors and scalping Indians, always

I met with a rather amusing incident the first Sunday

on the warpath and brandishing tomahawks and

after my ordination. Some preparation had to be made

scalping knives. Truly a fearsome country for peace-

before I left for my first appointment and this made it

loving people to try and make a home. So they must

necessary for me to spend another week in town, and the

come prepared to sell their precious lives as dearly as

Sunday between I was sent to take service at a small

possible in case some marauding Indians made a raid on

church in the country. Just before the service began, two

their poor unsuspecting selves. What interested them was

186

• Daylight in the Swamp • the first Indian they saw in Canada was a clergyman of

home mission I had left as a boy of twelve nearly fifty-

their own Church and I don't think he gave them any

five years before. There I ended nearly fifty years in the

cause for alarm.

active ministry of the Church and went to live with my

My first appointment after ordination was the Lac

three sons who were actively employed with the gold

Seul Mission in Northwestern Ontario, and in the newly

mines at Red Lake, Ontario. But my work was not yet

formed diocese of Keewatin. It was a large mission and

done, for I carried on the services of the Church for

included several out-stations and that meant a large

nearly eight years because of the vacancy on the mission

territory which, in turn, involved much travelling. For

that then existed. I took my last regular service on Easter

besides the mission stations, the Indians at their trapping

day of this year. [1958]

grounds in winter were visited.

I did most of my travelling by snowshoe and dog team

After ten years at Lac Seul, I took charge of a newly

in winter. And by canoe and paddle and tumpline in

formed mission, namely the Peguis Mission in the

summer. But also by train and car and gas boat wherever

Diocese of Rupert's Land. After nearly ten years there, I

possible and later by plane when that mode of travel

returned to Lac Seul. But, I had only been there a year

came into general use. The latter was a quick and

when I was put in charge of the Indian missions in the

convenient way to travel where there were no railways or

southern part of the diocese of Keewatin. That took in a

motorcars. But even with the planes, there were still

very large territory and meant much travelling. In order

places I had to visit that called for the old way of travel,

to be nearer the centre of the work, I moved to Kenora

that is, by snowshoe and canoe.

and made my home there. Besides other advantages, it

In so much travelling over windswept lakes and

meant schooling for my children who, before that, had to

through forest trails, and through blinding blizzards in

be sent away from home for their education. I remained

winter, across rough and stormy lakes and running

at Kenora for nearly twenty years. By this time I was

foaming rapids in frail canoes in summer, it was

nearing forty years in the mission field and beginning to

inevitable that things did not always run as smoothly as

feel the strain of much hard travelling on account of

one had hoped. I don't think I ever took any foolhardy

advancing years.

chances and if I did take any risks, it was from necessity

I then moved back to Lac Seul and remained for four

and I always came safely through them.

years. The reason for the move was because there was not

I remember once travelling across a large lake, many

so much travelling to do. In 1944 I took the opportunity

miles across, when a blizzard struck when I was still ten

offered to take charge of the Fairford Mission, my old

miles out. There were times when I couldn't even see my

187

• Daylight in the Swamp • lead dog. Then night came on, no sign of stars or moon

covered with a thick blanket of snow. I never carried a

to guide me and I was all alone with only my dogs for

tent except in the summer as a protection from rain. For

company in that howling, shrieking blizzard and blinding

three days the storm raged with high winds that whipped

snow. Just before darkness fell I came to a crack in the ice

the lake into wild, high waves. At the end of the third day

that ran right across my way and stretched for miles on

we ate the last morsel of food we had, although we tried

either side. I spent a lot of valuable time looking for a safe

to make it last out as long as possible. But we still had tea.

place to cross but at last found a place where I thought I

We rolled in our bedding that night hoping the storm

might be able to make it. There was just a thin sheet of ice

would blow itself out but, when we awoke next morning,

over it and this was one time when I had to take a chance,

it was still blowing, though the snow had stopped. All we

Even the dogs seemed to sense the danger but I persuaded

had for breakfast that morning was tea. There was not a

them by cracking of the whip and voice to make a dash

sign of any living thing around, though we sought them

for it. We made it alright but I could see the water coming

in the bush. Not even a squirrel or a whiskey jack,

up behind me as we passed over the thin ice. I was on the

We couldn't stay there without food, and besides, when

toboggan, of course, which acted like a plank when one

the wind went down the lake might freeze and to wait for

ventures on dangerous ice. At long last I began to feel the

several days without food for the ice to get strong enough

snow getting deeper under me. That told me that we were

to travel on offered a poor prospect. So there was only one

getting near shore where the snow began to pile up and,

other thing to do and that was to get away from there as

sure enough, a little further and we hit land. By following

quickly as possible. Loading our stuff into the canoe and

the shore and keeping in the lee of the bush, we came to

with one more mug of hot tea, we launched out. How that

the Indian village that I was making for and all was well.

frail canoe bounced about on the rough waves. But it

On another occasion I had to make a trip of some

began to get heavy as the splashing water froze onto it as it

distance rather late in November and took a man with me

fell. The same thing happened to me as I was at the bow of

in case I met with some difficulty at that season of the

the canoe and got every splash. Travelling under these

year and we sure had lots. On our way back, the weather

conditions was hard work, of course. We were just

that up to that time had remained fine, turned bad. Thick

paddling. No outboard motor in those days. Empty

clouds began to gather and the wind shifted to the north,

stomachs made it a lot harder. Almost every two hours we

We were still twenty miles from home when we made

would land and boil the kettle. Though we made a round

camp that night. During the night the storm broke and

in the bush, there was nothing to be seen that would serve

when we woke up in the morning we found ourselves

for food. The storm had driven everything under cover.

188

• Daylight in the Swamp • Then we came to a deep bay running many miles

journey, long after midnight. As we paddled along we

inland. But only three miles across. We decided to risk the

could see that ice was beginning to form on the water,

three miles of rough water. We had been travelling on

But let it freeze! We were just about home. When I

rough water before but were near land all the time. But in

looked onto the lake later that morning, it was covered

this case it was crossing a deep bay with no land near and

with ice. We just got home in time,

if the water got too rough, there was no shelter handy to run to. It was getting late in the short autumn afternoon when we got across without mishap and, on rounding the point, there in a little sandy cove lay a birchbark canoe. And, nestling among the shelter of pine trees, a birchbark wigwam with a little curl of blue smoke coming out at the top. What a pleasant sight—and feeling—for even my hunger didn't seem so acute when I saw that. There was also a dog that gave warning to the inmates that strangers had arrived. When I pushed my way through an opening that had a piece of canvas hanging over it to serve for a door and stood inside, the good lady of the wigwam uttered an exclamation of surprise. And her first words were, "What happened?" for I was just about covered with ice. I ignored her question and said, "We're hungry." After a good meal of boiled whitefish and potatoes and bannock, we set out again, only this time we had several large whitefish that our kind friends supplied in case we had to stop on the way for a meal. For we still had ten miles to paddle before we reached home. Towards evening the wind began to calm down and the clouds cleared away and we knew the lake would freeze. So we kept on going till we came to the end of our

189

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bibliography

Selwyn Hanington Dewdney: Selected Publications Books 1946 Wind Without Rain. Toronto: Copp Clark. [Novel.] Republished with an introduction, New Canadian Library Series, Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1974. 1960

The Map That Grew. Toronto: Oxford University Press. [Children's book.]

1967

(With Kenneth E. Kidd.) Indian Rock Paintings of the Great Lakes. Second edition. Published for the Quetico Foundation. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

1975

The Sacred Scrolls of the Southern Ojibway. Published for the Glenbow-Alberta Institute, Calgary, Alberta. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

1975

They Shared To Survive: The Native Peoples of Canada. Illustrated by Franklin Arbuckle. Toronto: The Macmillan Company of Canada, Limited.

1978

Christopher Breton. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart. [Novel.]

1980

The Hungry Time. Toronto: James Lorimer & Company, Publishers. [Children's book.]

Articles 1958 "The Quetico Pictographs." The Beaver (Summer), pp. 15-22 1959

"Stone Age Art in the Canadian Shield." Canadian Art XVI 3, pp. 164-167

1964

"Writings on Stone Along the Milk River." The Beaver (Winter), 22-29

1970

"Ecological Notes on the Ojibway Shaman-artist." artscanada 27 (4) pp. 17-28

Reports and chapters 1970 "Dating rock art in the Canadian Shield region." Royal Ontario Museum Art and Archaeology Occasional Paper 24. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. 1976

1977

"Birth of a Cree-Ojibway Style of Contemporary Art." Chapter 9 in One Century Later: Western Canadian Reserve Indians Since Treaty 7. Ian A.L. Getty and Donald B. Smith, eds., Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. "Search for images of forgotten dreams." In Gilles Tasse and Selwyn Dewdney, eds., Releves et travaux recents sur Van rupestre amerindien, pp. 5-33. Collection Paleo-Quebec 8. Edite par le laboratoire d'archaeologie de 1'Universite du Quebec a Montreal, Montreal.

191

SELWYNDEWDNEY 1909 - 1979 FATHER OF ROCK ART RESEARCH IN CANADA Selwyn Dewdney pioneered the study of Amerindian rock paintings and carvings in Canada* He recorded 290 rock art sites between 1957 and 1975, In his quest, he paddled his canoe hundreds of miles into remote regions of the Canadian Shield. The Agawa pictographs were very special to him, In 1958 he wrote: AT AGAWA EVEN IN THE CALM THE WATER WAS RESTLESS BESIDE THE SLOPING LEDGE UNDER THE SHEER CLIFF. WE COMMANDEERED A LEAKY PUNT FROM THE FISH CAMP ON A NEARBY ISLAND AND PADDLED ASHORE WITH ONE OAR, A PIECE OF PLANK, AND A BAILING CAN. THEN, I STARED, A HUGE ANIMAL WITH CRESTED BACK AND HORNED HEAD. THERE WAS NO MISTAKING HIM, AND THERE, A MAN ON A HORSE - AND THERE FOUR SUNS •* AND THERE, CANOES... MY FOURTEEN MONTHS' SEARCH WAS OVER.

Dewdney came to know and respect the native peoples of Canada in his search for these "images of forgotten dreams". He turned his talents as artist* teacher, and author to share with other Canadians his profound love of this country's rich heritage. In May 1980, his sons Donner, Keewatin* Peter, and Christopher commended their father's ashes into his beloved Lake Superior, close to the Agawa pictograph site. IN TRIBUTE: BY THE FRIENDS, COLLEAGUES, AND FAMILY OF SELWYN DEWDNEY, IN CO-OPERATION WITH THE ONTARIO MINISTRY OF NATURAL RESOURCES,