A LEGEND OF THE LAURENTIDES. 



JOSEPH W. HOWE. 



Our party, consisting of 2 ladies, 4 gen- 

 tlemen and our Canadian guides, left the 

 Cinq camp of the Laurentian Club at 3 

 a.m. to follow a 5 mile trail through the 

 woods to the St. Maurice river. 



Of course we took lanterns to light our 

 way, for whoever has threaded a forest trail 

 by night knows that, in the woods, the 

 darkness is something not to be trifled 

 with. It is tangible — is made manifest by 

 rocks and roots, bushes and fallen trees, 

 holes in the ground, bogs, logs, tangled 

 vines and stumps, barring the way, catching 

 the legs and tripping the feet stepping 

 never so carefully. 



Thanks to the lanterns we got through 

 the woods and down the steep bluff to the 

 landing at the Baptiste farm all right; and 

 at 5 o'clock were on the small steamboat 

 we had chartered to take us 50 miles up the 

 river. 



Adolph, the veteran guardian of the 

 Cinq camp, had put up an enticing lunch- 

 eon for us, and we should have fared well 

 if our hungry guides had not devoured it, 

 supposing it their own. But we had plen- 

 ty of plain bread and did not go hungry. 



The fuel of the steamer was cord wood, 

 and she carried enough on the forward 

 deck for 2 hours' steaming. As often as the 

 pile grew low she would make for the land 

 and thrust her nose against the bank, while 

 the crew and guides scrambled ashore and 

 rolled down the logs gathered there for her 

 use. 



For the most part we passed our time 

 at the stern of the boat, sheltered by a 

 wooden roof; only going forward when 

 we desired to have holes burned through 

 our hats by the vicious little coals puffed 

 from the smoke stack. 



Our canoes on the roof were kept from 

 burning by relays of the guides, with buck- 

 ets of water. 



The voyage was not without a peculiar 

 interest. The scenery was wild and fine; 

 the river broad and swift, with wide sweep- 

 ing channel well marked by Government 

 buoys. We ran up the Croche rapids, a 

 mile long, in a current so quick, rough 

 and strong that, at times, the little boat 

 scarcely made headway. We knew, too, 

 we were traveling the route followed for 

 centuries past by the Hudson Bay Com- 

 pany and their dependants, the Indians, 

 with their stores and furs, their canoes and 

 strange barges. 



We remembered that by these waters the 

 savage Iroquois made their incursions into 

 the land of the Northern Indians, and that 

 by this way had passed, in years gone by, 



many a painted war party laden with the 

 scalps and spoils of their foes. 



The most remarkable feature of the day, 

 perhaps, was the celebration — if it may be 

 called so — of the visit of the Roman Cath- 

 olic bishop to the lumbermen who live 

 widely scattered along the banks of the 

 river. The bishop pays his pastoral visit 

 to these French habitants once in 4 years. 



They are festive days when he comes. 

 Flag poles, cut in the adjoining forest, are 

 erected at intervals on the river banks. 

 Double rows of trees are temporarily set 

 up from the landing to the small one-story 

 log house where the bishop is expected, 

 that he may be sheltered as he walks. The 

 families — men, women and children — gath- 

 er from other houses up and down the 

 river to receive blessing and absolution. 



As we steamed along, these groups 

 greeted us by waving of hands and hats 

 and an occasional salute of musketry. One 

 fact particularly attracted our attention. It 

 was always the French and never the Brit- 

 ish flag that floated from the staff. 



Some of our guides confided to us their 

 hope and belief that the Bishop would ban- 

 ish *he black flies. Later in the day, on a 

 long portage when both black flies and 

 mosquitoes swarmed about our heads, we 

 regretted the Bishop had not preceded us 

 and worked his blessed work. 



In the St. Maurice, about 100 miles North 

 from the point where the river empties into 

 the St. Lawrence, is " La Tuque," a mag- 

 nificent fall of 70 feet, and here is the head 

 of steamboat navigation. 



At 2 p.m., after 9 hours' steaming, we 

 landed at the foot of the " Tuque " and be- 

 gan a portage, 11 miles long. 



Joe Mercier was at the shore ready to 

 carry our luggage and provisions. Joe is 

 a famous river and forest guide, and in 

 knowledge of the river, its currents and 

 rapids, perhaps has no equal in that coun- 

 try. He was one of the Canadian boatmen 

 employed by the British government in the 

 famous Nile expedition. 



Our guides carried our canoes, and at 

 sunset we had made the portage and 

 were casting for trout in Big Wayagamack 

 lake. 



The managing director of the Laurentian 

 Club, who accompanied us, had listened to 

 Indian legends by many a camp fire. He 

 had also dreamed dreams of wonderful 

 specimens of Salmo fontinalis that lurked in 

 the depths of the remote and unfrequented 

 lake; of trout of 20 pounds weight, too big 

 and clumsy to come to the surface and leap 

 for the tinsel flies, and he prayed us in the 



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