FROM QUEBEC TO SOREL.
THE WATER-WAY INTO THE CONTINENT.--THE WESTERN AND THE SOUTHERN ROUTE TO
THE GULF OF MEXICO.--THE MAYETA.--COMMENCEMENT OF THE VOYAGE.--ASCENT OF
THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.--LAKE OF ST. PETER.--ACADIAN TOWN OF SOREL.
[Illustration: From Quebec, Canada, to Plattsburgh, New York State.
Route of CANOE MAYETA From Quebec Canada to Plattsburgh
N.Y. via St. Lawrence and Richelieu Rivers Followed by N. H. Bishop
in 1874
_Copyright, 1878 by Lee & Shepard_]
The canoe traveller can ascend the St. Lawrence River to Lake Ontario,
avoiding the rapids and shoals by making use of seven canals of a total
length of forty-seven miles. He may then skirt the shores of Lake
Ontario, and enter Lake Erie by the canal which passes around the
celebrated Falls of Niagara. From the last great inland sea he can visit
lakes Huron, Michigan, and, with the assistance of a short canal, the
grandest of all, Superior. When he has reached the town of Duluth, at
the southwestern end of Superior, which is the terminus of the Northern
Pacific Railroad, our traveller will have paddled (following the
contours of the land) over two thousand miles from salt water into the
American continent without having been compelled to make a portage with
his little craft. Let him now make his first portage westward, over
the railroad one hundred and fifteen miles from Duluth, to the
crossing of the Mississippi River at Brainerd, and launch his boat on
the Father of Waters, which he may descend with but few interruptions to
below the Falls of St. Anthony, at Minneapolis; or, if he will take his
boat by rail from Duluth, one hundred and fifty-five miles, to St. Paul,
he can launch his canoe, and follow the steamboat to the Gulf of Mexico.
This is the longest, and may be called the canoeist's western route to
the great Southern Sea. In St. Louis County, Minnesota, the water from
"Seven Beaver Lakes" flows south-southwest, and joins the Flood-Wood
River; there taking an easterly course towards Duluth, it empties into
Lake Superior. This is the St. Louis River, the first tributary of the
mighty St. Lawrence system. From the head waters of the St. Louis to the
mouth of the St. Lawrence at Bic Islands, where it enters the great
estuary, the length of this great water system, including the great
Lakes, is about two thousand miles. The area thus drained by the St.
Lawrence River is nearly six millions of square miles. The largest craft
can ascend it to Quebec, and smaller ones to Montreal; above which city,
navigation being impeded by rapids, the seven canals before mentioned
have been constructed that vessels may avoid this danger while voyaging
to Lake Ontario.
The southern and shorter coast route to the gulf leaves the great river
at the Acadian town of Sorel, where the quiet Richelieu flows into the
St. Lawrence River. Of the two long routes offered me I selected the
southern, leaving the other to be traversed at some future time. To
follow the contours of rivers, bays, and sounds, a voyage of at least
twenty-five hundred miles was before me. It was my intention to explore
the connecting watercourses southward, without making a single portage,
as far as Cape Henlopen, a sandy headland at the entrance of Delaware
Bay; there, by making short portages from one watercourse to another, to
navigate along the interior of the Atlantic coast to the St. Mary's
River, which is a dividing line between Georgia and Florida. From the
Atlantic coast of southern Georgia, I proposed to cross the peninsula of
Florida by way of the St. Mary's River, to Okefenokee Swamp; thence, by
portage, to the Suwanee River, and by descending that stream (the
boundary line of a geographical division--eastern and middle Florida),
to reach the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, which was to be the terminal
point of my canoe journey. Charts, maps, and sea-faring men had informed
me that about twenty-three hundred miles of the trip could be made upon
land-locked waters, but about two hundred miles of voyaging must be done
upon the open Atlantic Ocean.
As I now write, I smilingly remember how erroneous were my advisers;
for, while prosecuting my voyage, I was but once upon the open sea, and
then through mistake and for only a few minutes. Had I then known that I
could have followed the whole route in a small boat upon strictly
interior waters, I should have paddled from the Basin of Quebec in the
light paper canoe which I afterwards adopted at Troy, and which carried
me alone in safety two thousand miles to the warm regions of the Gulf of
Mexico. The counsels of old seamen had influenced me to adopt a large
wooden clinker-built, decked canoe, eighteen feet long, forty-five
inches beam, and twenty-four inches depth of hold, which weighed, with
oars, rudder, mast and sail, above three hundred pounds. The Mayeta was
built by an excellent workman, Mr. J. S. Lamson, at Bordentown, New
Jersey. The boat was sharp at each end, and the lines from amidships to
stem, and from amidships to sternpost, were alike. She possessed that
essential characteristic of seaworthiness, abundant sheer. The deck was
pierced for a cockpit in the centre, which was six feet long and
surrounded by a high combing to keep out water. The builder had done his
best to make the Mayeta serve for rowing and sailing--a most difficult
combination, and one not usually successful.
On the morning of July 4, 1874, I entered the Basin of Quebec with my
wooden canoe and my waterman, one David Bodfish, a "shoreman" of New
Jersey. After weeks of preparation and weary travel by rail and by
water, we had steamed up the Gulf and the River of St. Lawrence to this
our most northern point of departure. We viewed the frowning heights
upon which was perched the city of Quebec with unalloyed pleasure, and
eagerly scrambled up the high banks to see the interesting old city. The
tide, which rises at the city piers eighteen feet in the spring, during
the neaps reaches only thirteen feet. Late in the afternoon the incoming
tide promised to assist us in ascending the river, the downward current
of which runs with torrent-like velocity, and with a depth abreast the
city of from sixteen to twenty fathoms. Against this current powerful
steamers run one hundred and eighty miles up the river to Montreal in
eighteen hours, and descend in fourteen hours, including two hours'
stoppages at Sorel and Three Rivers. At six o'clock P. M. we pushed off
into the river, which is about two-thirds of a mile wide at this point,
and commenced our voyage; but fierce gusts of wind arose and drove us to
the shelter of Mr. Hamilton's lumber-yard on the opposite shore, where
we passed the night, sleeping comfortably upon cushions which we spread
on the narrow floor of the boat. Sunday was to be spent in camp; but
when dawn appeared we were not allowed to build a fire on the lumber
pier, and were forced to ascend the St. Lawrence in quest of a retired
spot above the landing of St. Croix, on the right bank of the river. The
tide had been a high one when we beached our boat at the foot of a
bluff. Two hours later the receding tide left us a quarter of a mile
from the current. The river was fully two miles wide at this point, and
so powerful was its current that steamers anchored in it were obliged to
keep their wheels slowly revolving to ease the strain on their anchors.
Early on Monday morning we beheld with consternation that the tide did
not reach our boat, and by dint of hard labor we constructed a railroad
from a neighboring fence, and moved the Mayeta on rollers upon it over
the mud and the projecting reef of rocks some five hundred feet to the
water, then embarking, rowed close along the shore to avoid the current.
A deep fog settled down upon us, and we were driven to camp again on the
left bank, where a cataract tumbled over the rocks fifty or more feet.
Tuesday was a sunny day, but the usual head wind greeted us. The water
would rise along-shore on the flood three hours before the downward
current was checked in the channel of the river. We could not place any
dependence in the regularity of the tides, as strong winds and freshets
in the tributaries influence them. Earlier in the season, as a writer
remarks, "until the upland waters have all run down, and the great
rivers have discharged the freshets caused by thawing of the snows in
the spring of the year, this current, in spite of tides, will always run
down." To the uninitiated the spectacle is a curious one, of the flood
tide rising and swelling the waters of a great river some eight to ten
feet, while the current at the surface is rapidly descending the course
of the stream.
Finding that the wind usually rose and fell with the sun, we now made it
a rule to anchor our boat during most of the day and pull against the
current at night. The moon and the bright auroral lights made this task
an agreeable one. Then, too, we had Coggia's comet speeding through the
northern heavens, awakening many an odd conjecture in the mind of my old
salt.
In this high latitude day dawned before three o'clock, and the twilight
lingered so long that we could read the fine print of a newspaper
without effort at a quarter to nine o'clock P. M. The lofty shores that
surrounded us at Quebec gradually decreased in elevation, and the tides
affected the river less and less as we approached Three Rivers, where
they seemed to cease altogether. We reached the great lumber station of
Three Rivers, which is located on the left bank of the St. Lawrence, on
Friday evening, and moved our canoe into quiet waters near the entrance
of Lake of St. Peter. Rain squalls kept us close under our hatch-cloth
till eleven o'clock A. M. on Saturday, when, the wind being fair, we
determined to make an attempt to reach Sorel, which would afford us a
pleasant camping-ground for Sunday.
Lake of St. Peter is a shoal sheet of water twenty-two miles long and
nearly eight miles wide, a bad place to cross in a small boat in windy
weather. We set our sail and sped merrily on, but the tempest pressed us
sorely, compelling us to take in our sail and scud under bare poles
until one o'clock, when we double-reefed and set the sail. We now flew
over the short and swashy seas as blast after blast struck our little
craft. At three o'clock the wind slackened, permitting us to shake out
our reefs and crowd on all sail. A labyrinth of islands closed the lake
at its western end, and we looked with anxiety to find among them an
opening through which we might pass into the river St. Lawrence again.
At five o'clock the wind veered to the north, with squalls increasing in
intensity. We steered for a low, grassy island, which seemed to separate
us from the river. The wind was not free enough to permit us to weather
it, so we decided to beach the boat and escape the furious tempest. But
when we struck the marshy island we kept moving on through the rushes
that covered it, and fairly sailed over its submerged soil into the
broad water on the other side. Bodfish earnestly advised the propriety
of anchoring here for the night, saying, "It is too rough to go on;" but
the temptation held out by the proximity to Sorel determined me to take
the risk and drive on. Again we bounded out upon rough water, with the
screeching tempest upon us. David took the tiller, while I sat upon the
weather-rail to steady the boat. The Mayeta was now to be put to a
severe test; she was to cross seas that could easily trip a boat of her
size; but the wooden canoe was worthy of her builder, and flew like an
affrighted bird over the foaming waves across the broad water, to the
shelter of a wooded, half submerged island, out of which rose, on piles,
a little light-house. Under this lee we crept along in safety. The sail
was furled, never to be used in storm again. The wind went down with the
sinking sun, and a delightful calm favored us for our row up the
narrowing river, eight miles to the place of destination.
Soon after nine o'clock we came upon the Acadian town, Sorel, with its
bright lights cheerily flashing out upon us as we rowed past its river
front. The prow of our canoe was now pointed southward toward the goal
of our ambition, the great Mexican Gulf; and we were about to ascend
that historic stream, the lovely Richelieu, upon whose gentle current,
two hundred and sixty-six years before, Champlain had ascended to the
noble lake which bears his name, and up which the missionary Jogues had
been carried an unwilling captive to bondage and to torture.
We ascended the Richelieu, threading our way among steam-tugs,
canal-boats, and rafts, to a fringe of rushes growing out of a shallow
flat on the left bank of the river, just above the town. There, firmly
staking the Mayeta upon her soft bed of mud, secure from danger, we
enjoyed a peaceful rest through the calm night which followed; and thus
ended the rough passage of one week's duration--from Quebec to Sorel.