There’s rarely anything funny about running aground five feet from shore. It usually means someone, if not all members of the crew, get their feet wet. The day it happened on the Hudson River – a canoe trip my class took at the beginning of Grade 12 – nobody was in the mood for the irritation. No one, that is, except bowsman Michael Davies.
He seemed to have already calculated that with one good leap he could land within inches of the shoreline. And in a flash, he had done just that, scarcely dampening the soles of his runners. His departure did little to rectify the problem which of course stemmed from the load in the rear. From the sly smirk on his face, we realized Davies’s calculations did not end with him getting ashore dry.
“Jump out, Fatman,” egged Davies as he tied the bowline around his waist in case the boat should be swept away by the current. “Maybe I’ll be able to pull the canoe in then.”
Davies seemed to particularly enjoy baiting Don Forfar. So much so that they had come to blows on several occasions. Forfar, of course, was damned if he was going to take orders from Davies. His reply left no doubt what he thought of his suggestion. As steersman that day it was my job to give orders. Reluctantly I was forced to play into Davies’ hand.
“You’d better get out, Don,” I said.
He was understandably not happy being singled out and said so. But then the natural salesman in him went to work. He tried to talk Peter Jackson and David Cooper into getting out instead, arguing the water would be shallower where they sat.
A debate ensued consisting mostly of four-letter words, which in a time of a real emergency would have certainly forced Mr. Bennett to intervene. As members of the graduating class we were supposed to be running our own show. We were expected to demonstrate that we had learned the school’s lessons of leadership, responsibility, and self-discipline. So he stayed out of it.
Forfar’s stalling forced me to turn the suggestion into an order. This time he gave indications of complying. With the canoe lurching from side to side, he made a major production of removing his runners and socks and then rolling up his pants.
Not so gracefully he stood up, sank his paddle into the gravel, and leaped into the river. Unfortunately, he had failed to take into consideration how slippery it would be once his bare feet hit the slime that covers the bottom of one of the United States’ more polluted rivers.
Davies was chuckling even before Forfar hit the water. Seconds later he was sprawled on all fours, grabbing for the boat and cursing the bowsman. All of us, of course, were now smiling. I quickly gave the order for everyone to get out and we waded the boat ashore. Needless to say, that was not the end of the incident.
“Why didn’t you watch where we were going?” muttered Jackson who was not known to be talkative at the best of times.
“Screw off,” spat Davies. Throughout the trip, Davies seemed to be deliberately alienating himself from everyone except perhaps Cooper.
The tension that evening in camp was worse than usual. Every time Davies opened his mouth he seemed to be spoiling for a fight. Soon it was my turn to take offense.
“I hope you realize Cooper and I won’t be going on any of the tours,” Davies said during a discussion of plans for our stay in New York City, just over a day’s paddle away.
“What do you mean by that?” I said indignantly.
“We’ll be taking off on our own. I never said I wanted to go to those places in the first place,” he replied.
I was furious.
“Sometimes you really piss me off,” I fired back.
“Where the fuck were you when someone was needed to write letters to find a place to stay. How about co-operating for once in your life? These people are putting us up for nothing. I’m not about to tell them we don’t want to see the things they’ve arranged for us.”
But he wouldn’t give up.
“Just tell them that two of us decided to do something else.”
“Don’t be such an asshole. They had to arrange tickets for some of the things. Do me a favor and keep your mouth shut.”
Forfar was loving every minute. He was enjoying seeing someone else on the receiving of Davies’ abuse and he didn’t want it to end.
“Give ’em shit, Dick,” he cheered, a broad smile beaming through his bushy red beard, a proud souvenir of his summer spent in a northern Quebec lumber camp. But I’d had enough that day. Not just of Davies, but of the school.
If I’d cared more I might have put up a fight – then, and later – when he and Cooper took off on their own, only choosing to join us on the last night when our hosts at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine provided a barbecue dinner.
My attitude had actually begun to sour before we left Montreal on August 27, 1967, for the 11-day trip. While working in Quebec City that summer I got the idea of doing Grade 12 at a Quebec high school. Rather than being encouraged, I received that all-too-familiar pep talk of “finishing the job” with the subtitle “Don’t be a quitter.”
I was a bit more disappointed that it was coming from my brother-in-law but not really surprised. My mother and father were also not in favor.
Still, I thought it was a message that did not apply. Surely what I proposed was exactly the kind of initiative the school wanted to encourage. I had spent the summer packing groceries in a supermarket in an attempt to learn to speak the language. Now I wanted to study in French so as to become bilingual. It struck me as being a challenge above and beyond what the school could provide and should have been encouraged. But apparently not.
So I abandoned the scheme, no doubt much to my mother’s relief, and went on the canoe trip. As the trip unfolded it seemed as if similar seeds of discontent had been sown in the minds of other classmates.
This might have been more apparent had the trip not been so enjoyable. Apart from a couple of stormy wet days on Lake Champlain, the weather was perfect. We were in constant contact with civilization and there was seldom a day when we weren’t on the receiving end of some big-hearted American hospitality.
For most of its early history, this famous water route linking Quebec with the U.S. eastern seaboard was not so hospitable to foreigners. More blood was shed along its shores than on any other route on the continent.
Samuel Champlain was the first white man to go to war in the region. In 1608 he joined a raid by the Algonquins on the notorious Iroquois. The enemy fled in terror after being confronted by guns for the first time. Two of the three Iroquois chiefs were killed in the opening volley.
From then on battles were fought on and off along the route during seven wars. The last bloody confrontation occurred in 1837 when a band of Quebec separatists was crushed by British troops at St. Charles near the U.S. border.
The historic route begins at Montreal where the St. Lawrence River has widened to become a major commercial thoroughfare. Thirty miles downstream the route leaves the St. Lawrence and follows the Richelieu River upstream as far as the US border and the beginning of Lake Champlain.
Edged by the towering Adirondack Mountains on the west and the picturesque Green Mountains on the east, Lake Champlain is one of breathtaking grandeur and beauty. It measures nearly 100 miles long. Great islands bearing such names as La Motte, North Hero and South Hero guard the northern end. But once beyond Cumberland Head at Plattsburgh, the route passes through open water for more than 30 miles converging to a slender finger at Fort Ticonderoga. It is at this point that the historic route divides.
Pioneer-day travelers often crossed the one-mile portage to Lake George, a lake that historian Francis Parkman once described as the most beautiful lake in America, and descended to Fort William Henry. There, a further eight-mile portage awaits, bringing the traveler to the upper reaches of the Hudson River at Fort Edward.
Alternatively, the route continues south from Ticonderoga through the tropics-like marsh country known as the Drowned Lands to the mouth of Wood Creek and the present-day site of Whitehall. Forty miles further lies a portage which also brought the early traveler to Fort Edward. Today Wood Creek has been turned into a canal with a series of locks giving pleasure boats easy access to the Hudson. The final leg of the journey descends 170 miles along the Hudson to New York and the Atlantic Ocean.
Although it was supposed to have been a trip organized and run by ourselves we had almost nothing to do with the preparations. The night before departure we showed up at the designated church hall in Montreal, assuming everything had been taken care of. Fortunately for us it had. A canoe, gear, food, and a panel van had all arrived from the school without any of us being involved. The next morning that changed.
We began by agreeing that everyone would get a turn being steersman. This was certainly democratic though perhaps questionable since two of my classmates had no prior steering experience. But between the five of us, we did have more than 10,000 miles of paddling experience – something that reduced the risk considerably.
We now had a boss for each day but that still didn’t ensure that when my brother James drove off in the van that he had instructions about where to drop off our food supplies. The food along with the van went all the way to New York. It was a detail that on most trips could have proved disastrous. But on this trip, we were never very far from a store.
Somehow we settled the arguments as to who sat where and set off along one of North America’s busiest shipping corridors. It was a day filled with tense moments as we fought being swamped by the wake of enormous cargo ships. As a result, we hugged the South shore, traveling behind islands whenever possible.
By late afternoon we had reached that point on the St. Lawrence where a one-mile portage led to the Richelieu River, thereby saving ten miles of paddling. I don’t think the portage saved us any time and I know we were a lot more tired than we would otherwise have been when we camped that night. Fortunately it was the only portage on the trip.
Though not a swift river it took us two days to paddle the 70 miles up the Richelieu to Lake Champlain. The first night we camped near Chambly, the site of one of the earliest showdowns between the French and the English for control of Canada. In August of 1691 forces led by Frontenac briefly trapped a band of English colonials from Albany and their Iroquois allies on the trail between Chambly and Montreal. Inexplicably the French allowed them to escape back south although during an earlier raid on Montreal the French had suffered heavy losses.
A day later we crossed the border and entered Lake Champlain. The fine summer weather had turned cool and threatening. We camped the first night just beyond Plattsburgh, the scene of a famous naval battle during the War of 1812. It was one of the battles in the war which the American forces won.
Our overnight stay near Plattsburgh produced the only unfriendly encounter of the entire trip. We were camped on the lawn of an unoccupied cottage so perhaps it was deserved, particularly since several of us had crawled under the porch to sleep.
Around midnight, with the rain streaming down, we were awakened by a New York State trooper wielding a high-powered flashlight, barking orders. He wanted us all out on the lawn immediately with our “IDs.” It was the first time I had heard the term and had to ask what he meant before producing my driver’s license.
For a while, the officer was very intimidating. The flap on his holster was undone, his gun at the ready. He had been particularly hostile when he discovered those of us under the porch.
Mr. Bennett did most of the talking. He was able to persuade him not to charge us with trespassing on the condition we vacate the property at daybreak and didn’t light any more fires. A neighbor had apparently seen our fire and reported it to the police.
A cold breakfast in the drizzle provided a miserable beginning to the worst day of the trip. Throughout the day we battled the wind and the rain, coming perilously close to dumping a few times. About mid-afternoon, buffeted by ever-changing gusts, we made an emergency landing at a dock on the opposite shore. This time, much to our relief, the cottagers welcomed us with open arms. They warmed us, fed us, and gave us a dry place to spend the night. It was American hospitality at its best.
The following morning the skies were still grey but the wind had dropped. We spent the night near where the lake narrows to a channel a mile wide. The next day, our sixth, we reached Crown Point.
We awoke the following morning to clear skies and near-freezing temperatures. A fall chill was in the air as we paddled the 12 miles to the famous French stronghold Fort Ticonderoga and landed where many a boat had done so during the Seven Years War. That war between 1758 and 1764 ultimately decided the fate of Canada.
We joined the throng of tourists viewing the reconstructed barricade of earth and tree trunks that made up the grassy promontory on which the fort stood. In 1758 Fort Ticonderoga withstood an attack by a combined British and American army numbering 15,000 men. We also visited the re-built bunker that had been blown up by the French prior to abandoning the fort a year later.
The rest of the day was spent paddling through the Drowned Lands, the last leg of the lake. We camped that night at Whitehall. In the morning we took our place in line behind the luxury yachts vying to be first through the lock.
Paddle power turned out to be just the right speed for ensuring there was no wait at the locks along the canal. We would invariably catch up to the yachts we had shared the previous lock with.
It was a wonderfully lazy day for us voyageurs, getting rests at the locks, and very often cold refreshments – usually beer – from the sympathetic yachters. The drinking age in New York State was 18 so most of us were close enough to the legal age not to be shy about accepting their generosity.
Along the way, Mr. Bennett added to our food supply with a few things from the store but mostly we survived on American hospitality, some of which was without their knowledge.
In the spirit of Huck Finn, we frequently availed ourselves of the fresh corn growing almost to the water’s edge. On a couple of occasions the owners, had they known, would have had the last laugh. We were helping ourselves to a less tasty and much tougher variety, cattle feed.
During our leisurely trip along the Champlain Canal, we also made contact with a Canadian yachter who proved to be the most generous of all. That evening we were guests around his table at a yacht club on the upper Hudson. It was a feast that those of us with stomach flu – everyone got it at some point – were too sick to appreciate.
The next day we dined out twice although supper had been previously arranged. The lunch experience, however, was unexpected and reminiscent of a scene from the Great Gadsby.
We were ambling along the Hudson about noon on a sunny Labor Day Monday when we came upon a sprawling country mansion and what seemed like hundreds of well-dressed people making merry on the lawns. Before we knew it we had been hailed to come ashore and join the festivities.
The next thing we knew we were participants in an old-fashioned picnic given by the mayor of Waterford to celebrate his daughter’s wedding. Colorfully-skirted tables laden with food filled the main lawn while bunting and American flags hung from the sprawling oaks and maples on the perimeter. Beer from one of the kegs was soon thrust into our hands.
When they discovered we were Canadians the crowd broke into a ruckus, almost recognizable, version of our national anthem. The singing fizzled out when it was realized they only knew the first couple of lines. I remember gorging on the clam chowder that filled a large urn on one table. There was corn and watermelon by the bushel.
We stayed long enough to eat and show our appreciation, remembering we had another free meal waiting for us that evening. Forfar departed with a souvenir from the rather bizarre experience. The mayor insisted on autographing his paddle.
That evening we were guests of my cousin Anthony Morris, an Episcopal Church priest at Troy, New York. They lived on a farm not far from the Hudson.
After Troy, where the Mohawk River joins up, the Hudson widens into an unremarkable, swift-moving thoroughfare. The final two days were filled with long periods of paddling in an attempt to cover the remaining miles as quickly as possible. Discussions and, more precisely, differences of opinion about plans for New York kept our minds off the monotony.
The last night we camped at Tarrytown leaving less than 30 miles to go. The tides had become a major factor so we decided to get up at midnight to ensure both the ever-increasing current and the tides would be in our favour.
Setting off in the dark we soon had the unnerving experience of paddling past eerie reminders of the Second World War. Dozens of ships from the American merchant navy lay anchored along the shore, towering over us, dark and deserted. Ahead in the distance, the lights of New York were beginning to appear.
Because I had more experience Mr. Bennett suggested I steer that night. Everything seemed dark and ominous – as if caught in a nightmare that was carrying us to an unthinkable end. The canoe seemed to be racing faster and faster towards that mountain of lights ahead.
In the stern, I felt as if I was steering blindfolded, unable to do much more than keep us in the middle of the river. By the time the bowsman had alerted me to a channel marker, we had already sped by. It was terrifying.
Around 4 a.m. we passed under the George Washington Bridge and were suddenly only 100 blocks from our destination, the 79th Street Marina. The river, though dimly lit by the glow of the city, was fraught with dangerous obstacles. Wharves, jetties, and breakwaters thrust out from the banks on both sides. How, I wondered, would I be able to turn the canoe quickly enough to slip through the opening into the marina with crashing into something.
Street by street, landmark by landmark, we counted down towards 79th Street. The bowsman spotted the marina illuminated sign well ahead and I was able to begin angling for the dark spot I presumed to be the opening in the breakwater. Moments later I was levering the stern broadside and yelling for full power. Then suddenly it was over. We had entered the tranquil waters of the 79 Street Marina and arrived in New York City.
As they threatened Davies and Cooper struck off on their own soon after we had transported the canoe and gear to the Episcopal seminary where were staying. Forfar, Jackson and I took our host Canon Dennis’s suggestions and toured Harlem one day, Greenwich Village, Wall Street, and Times Square the next. I don’t remember him being offended by what the other two did.
One night we visited a coffeehouse where the Canadian folk duo Ian and Sylvia were playing. Their warm-up act was a still unknown Canadian singer by the name of Joni Mitchell. I remember being annoyed because we had to not only pay a cover charge but also order food before they would give us a table.
In my letter home, I remarked on the fact that
'everywhere you went there was filth and mess and everything was old and heavily guarded by security men.'
We were all approached at least once by someone wanting to sell us drugs. And “brother, can you spare me a dime,” became a standing joke among us, we heard it so often.
On the last evening, Canon Dennis gave me and another American teenager visiting an eye-opening glimpse into New York’s seamier side, no doubt hoping to shock us. We went bar hopping. That evening I visited my first gay bar.
On the morning of the fourth day, we tied the canoe onto the roof of the panel van, loaded our gear, and set off for Winnipeg. Ahead of us lay 1,700 miles and nearly 36 hours of non-stop driving. Upon arrival, we parted company, tired and irritable, for a couple of days off.
While staying with the Raymes family I once again began to dwell on my growing disillusionment with the school. Those thoughts led to my first act of rebellion that year. I ‘accidentally’ forgot which day we were supposed to return to the school.
That prompted a concerned phone call from Mr. Bennett. I lamely replied I had mixed up the date and promised to return that day. Nothing was said upon my arrival. As far as I know, he was the only one aware of what I had done. It wasn’t long, however, before other masters realized I was less than happy to be back.
Richard de Candole has been working in British Columbia and Alberta as a reporter and editor for over 40 years. Toughest School in North America is about his five years as a student at St. John’s Cathedral Boys’ School in Selkirk, Manitoba from 1962 to 1968. Richard lives with his wife Wendy in Qualicum Beach, British Columbia.
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