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The Voyage
They say that when you see a horizon on a river you'd better paddle for shore. But what if there is nothing but sheer granite walls squeezing you into a raging, foaming madness of water like a reluctant bull into a castrating chute? That's when you paddle. You paddle and you sing. The song keeps your strokes strong and steady and reminds you to take a deep breath in and to let it out as the front of the boat drops seven feet down into a whirlpool of white. It's a way of daring God to make you cry. But God likes a song and more often than not we bounce and flail through- and then it's ten more hours till we sleep like stones under our wet birch bark canoes.
We heard the roar before ever a horizon came into few. The rains had been hard and heavy over the mountains all the week before, speeding us along bearing our three tons of furs and supplies... and one white woman in silk and fancy shoes. Frances, "but call me Frank" had convinced her husband that life in peril with him would satisfy better than life in safety without him and so along she'd come. With paint box and paper in tow.
Our first portage had been an eye-opener both for her and for us Metis Voyageurs. She had...
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ReplyDeleteShe had …
ReplyDeleteTaken to the rivers and wilderness like a fish to water. This elegant high society city lady with her silk shoes was a natural outdoors woman, as if she had grown up on the waterways and rivers her whole life. That dainty little thing turned out to be tough as nails. She not only held her own and kept up with us males padding the river and rapids she turned out to be fearless in every way possible and a valued asset to have along with us. Frank as she liked to be called as it turned out was the granddaughter of one of….
(A rewrite of the first comment I'm really not at all happy with that...unfortunately I'm unable to remove it)
was the grandaughter of one of...
ReplyDeletethe Earls of Devonshire and had spent her summers riding fell ponies and swimming in the icy streams of the Isle of Man. For her honeymoon she went on safari in Africa and India, out hunting even the big hunters from America. Unfortunately her exploits made her an outcast in British society so she had opted for a life in the wilds of Canada.
The portages were notoriously tough. Each of us had to carry 500 pounds of furs and supplies along with the huge birch bark canoes over miles of rocky terrain. At first we thought we were going to have to carry her but she surprised us all by sling on a 90 pound sack of furs and stomping off into the wilderness. Later, at camp, we asked her about her paintings. Why did she want to paint us? She said...
She said...
ReplyDeletewith a soft sad concerned tone of voice without looking up while poking a stick at the ashes of the blazing camp fire.
“I feel it my duty and obligation to capture as much of the wilderness, the beasts, and the natives on canvas before they disappear. I fear; perhaps not in our life time, maybe not even in out children’s or grandchildren’s that this will someday all be gone”
This cause an outburst of laughter among the men which caused her to abruptly stop poking at the ashes, and look up with a confused look that quickly turned into an intense furious glare that would have spooked and frightened a grizzly. If looks could kill we’d have all been slain right there and then.
What could a Cavendish possibly know about the wilderness a voice echoed out from behind as four men emerged from the blackness of the thick brush? Huzza, Huzza, the last we've found thee.
We are…