Lakes and ponds, marshes and string bogs are sprinkled in bewildering profusion
all across the land, interconnected by an incredible labyrinth of rivers and
streams. Most are shallow. Lichen-covered boulders protrude everywhere. But
it is the ubiquitous black spruce that dominate the landscape. Seen near at
hand, they tend to be widely spaced on a lawn of yellow-gray caribou moss, rather
like a well manicured rock-garden park. But in the distance, they all muster
into one solid dark green army by the billions, to the far-off horizon and beyond,
seemingly forever. This truly is the Black Spruce Country
The above passage comes from my journal of our George River trip in 1967. It
describes my first impressions of this brooding landscape as viewed during our
train ride northward through the alluring high lake country of the Labrador
Plateau. From the iron ore port of Sept-Îles on the North Shore of the Gulf
of St. Lawrence, the Quebec North Shore and Labrador Railway transports the
traveler straight north for 360 miles deep into the heart of this vast wilderness.
August 8. The boulder we are leaning against is just one of many pushed high
up on the banks by the winter ice. The opposite shore, which is less than a
mile away at this point, is paved with this loose rock for miles in either direction.
The forest is here confined to a belt extending a few hundred yards up the slopes
on either side of the lake. There are good stands of spruce in some of the gullies,
the largest trees being a foot in diameter but not very tall. Higher up, the
steep hillsides support only scrub growth, predominantly Labrador tea. The summits
are mostly bare rock, forming or at least giving the appearance of, a continuous
mountain ridge. Yet many streams cascade down the hillsides and into the lake,
indicating even higher country beyond. A few patches of snow linger, and every
now and then one will glow brightly when the slanting rays of the afternoon
sun happen to break through the low, drifting clouds.
The preceding passage has been taken from my journal of the
same George River trip. The place, Indian House Lake. My partner was Bob Hatton.
We were a bit ahead of our four companions and this windy day and were waiting
in the shelter of some boulders for them to catch up. Normally I would have
recorded only navigational notes such as rapids and portages—a habit acquired
during my days of compiling canoeing guides. On this occasion, with time to
spare and perhaps inspired by the magnificent scenery, evidently I was in more
poetic mood.
And if that isn't enough to set the stage, here is one more passage extracted
from my short story “Headwaters.” The setting is Upper Cawasachouane
Lake on our portage route from La Vérendrye Park to the headwaters of the Dumoine
River in the summer of 1962.
It was that blissful season you get in the North Country in
late summer when you can sit around in shorts and not be bothered by bugs. The
pair of ospreys were still circling far down the lake, and it was so unearthly
quiet we could hear them calling even though they must have been more than a
mile away. Across the lake and beyond stretched the great boreal forest, wild
and unbroken. The black spruce, with their shaggy dark spires standing out sharply
against the bright sky, are our spiritual partners in this wilderness sanctuary.
Their stately legions will march along with us as silent company for the rest
of the trip.
Pages 34-35:
During the next few years our scouting trips covered various headwaters of the
Dead, Kennebecc, Penobscot, Aroostook, St. John, and Allagash watersheds. I
will mention just one other of these. In early June 1961, Jane and I, together
with the Hattons, were on yet another of these whirlwind scouting trips, exploring
as many streams as we could in a two-week vacation. Again we were using mostly
the State of Maine highway map, which showed a logging road leading from Ashland
to Island Pond in the head waters of Munsungan Stream. We were able to drive
all the way in, thanks to the Hatton's four-wheel drive Travelall.
Then I had an inspiration. Island Pond drains by a small mountain stream into
Chase Lake. I thought it possible for Bob and me, using the one canoe we had
with us and traveling light, to work our way down that stream all the way to
Chase Lake. Meanwhile the two wives would drive back out to Portage Lake and
be flown in with the other canoe to meet us at the lake. In looking back now,
I must say those two gals were such good sports to go along with these wild
schemes.
That stream turned out to be rough going, as expected. Bob did a lot of walking
with our pack while I ran solo or portaged. I will never forget the deadwater
partway down that was one solid mass of pitcher plants, the most I have ever
seen in one place. When we finally reached Chase Lake, the gals were already
there setting up camp but the other canoe was not. The pilot, Claire Moreau,
had explained that the wind was too rough and that he would bring the canoe
in early the next morning, which he did. We always figured that the real reason
was his reluctancec to dump the two women off deep in the Maine Woods and just
leave them there on the strength of some wild scheme involving a stream considered
totally impassable. That was another fine trip. We paddled down the Munsungan
Lake and Munsungan Stream to our second campsite, and down the Aroostook River
the following day to Ashland.
Pages 81-83:
Now back to eastern Canada and what has become of my favorite Black Spruce Country—Labrador
and northern Quebec.
In the spring of 1967, Kerck Kelsey asked me if I would be interested in a George
River trip. He was looking for an experienced pair to augment his party of four,
none of whom had done much wilderness tripping. I immediately accepted, provided
I could find a partner for a four-week trip on such short notice. Fortunately,
my old canoeing and hiking buddy Bob Hatton, a schoolteacher, was eager to go.
I had dreamed of a trip down the George River ever since having read the trilogy of
books on the Hubbard and Wallace exploits in 1903 and 1905. The logistics were
daunting, but Kerck had that pretty well worked out. We drove to Sept-Îles and
took the Quebec North Shore and Labrador Railway 360 miles northward to its
terminus at the iron ore mining town of Schefferville. We then took a short
truck ride to the seaplane base and flew to Cabot Lake in the headwaters of
the George River to start our down-river run.
The whole trip was just great. The river started out small but didn't stay that
way for long. Near the mouth it was measured at 30,000 cubic feet per second.
Paddling a fully loaded 17-foot canoe on nearly continuous rapids in a river
that size is quite an experience, but we played it cautiously and had no problems.
I took many black-and-white photos of the spectacular scenery. Most of us had
already read A Woman's Way Through Unknown Labrador by Mina Benson Hubbard,
and it was a thrill to rediscover some of the places she had recorded in her
book, easily identified from her excellent photographs and map. We even met
someone along the way who remembered seeing her.
Few canoeing parties had been down this river in the intervening 62 years, but
one of the strangest to do so was just ahead of us. When we reached the fishing
camp of Henri Culos just beyond Indian House Lake, we heard stories of what
became known as the legendary “dog biscuit party." Two canoeists from New York,
Gus Hormuth and Louie Caruso, had started from Iron Arm and descended the Riviére
de Pas to reach Indian House Lake. we were told they had capsized on the way
down, getting some of their provisions wet. When they reached Culos' camp and
dried out their things on rocks, it was revealed that their food consisted largely
of dog biscuits. To prevent another capsize, they were said to have fashioned
an outrigger on their 16-foot canoe consisting of Clorox bottles tied to the
ends of poles lashed crosswise.
At first, we were not sure how much of this to believe. But we found the Clorox
outrigger discarded at the start of the portage around Helen Falls. Later a
friend mailed me a clipping from the Long Island Press (July 13, 1969) with
an account of their adventure, even including a photo of the canoe with the
Clorox contraption. In answer to the reporter's question about the possibility
of accompanying her husband on such a trip, Hormuth's wife is quoted as having
“no desire to venture into the bleak tundra and eat dog biscuits.“ So there
it was. That fall I corresponded with Hormuth. In one of his letters he proposed
a meeting in the winter “to compare notes and possibly discuss a joint venture
into the North Country,” but I declined the invitation.
Pages 136-138:
Our first trans-Labrador route this summer covered 400 miles, which included
some upstream travel, the crossing of tow heights of land, and much rugged terrain.
We had planned provisions for 24 days. Partway in the trip, Bill made the surprising
revelation that he already had plane reservations for his return to the West
Coast, which called for completing the trip in 20 days. In spite of a side trip
to visit Harp Lake and one day in which we advanced only three-quarters of a
mile in a difficult gorge, we otherwise made good progress, and it looked as
if we might finish in time for Bill to catch his plane. But then as we neared
tidewater, we were hit by a terrific storm with heavy rain, sleet, and fierce
winds out of the north. We continued even in the storm, but for two days didn't
make much progress. Ironically, the storm proved a lucky break, as will be explained
shortly.
When we finally did reach tidewater we faced a two-day paddle in the Labrador
Sea to the end of our trip at Hopedale. Luckily the storm had passed and we
had ideal conditions in what otherwise might have been a major challenge. We
even had an outgoing tide and light tailwinds for a while. The scenery along
that wild rocky coast was magnificent. It is the only time I have seen icebergs
from a canoe. We also had a large whale surface a few hundred yards from us,
almost too close for comfort, likewise unique in my travels. I will always look
back on those two days as some of the best canoeing I have known.
