Kerry and I lived at the River for thirty one straight days this summer. On the morning of the thirty-second day I was off in a flurry with Nathan Sass and Jordan Poffenberger, headed to the wilds of Canada. One chapter ends and another begins.
Our time at the river was special. We arrived with Olive and Mogul in mid-July. The days were and the nights perfectly cool as we built fire after fire and watched the lights of Clayton glisten in the distance. We finally visited Gananoque, enjoyed a rainy day in Kingston, and celebrated our anniversary at the Wellesley Inn in T.I. Park, (afterward I almost made Kerry puke by spinning her around on the merry go round at an impossible speed.) We knee boarded, visited the sunken freighter, had parties in the Skiff House, jumped off Leake Island a million times, and drifted off to sleep at night listening to Christopher Timothy deliver the memoirs of James Herriot. It is undoubtedly a special place, and the two of us love it dearly. It now holds a remarkably special place in my heart, and I am beginning to understand the melancholy regret that goes along with leaving the dock at Rockledge for the last time of the summer. I am not sure what the future holds for the two of us in terms of staying at Rockledge, but I am fairly certain we will find a way to continue to spend time in such a magical place.
All things run their course, and on the morning of the thirty second day I was off on a new adventure. It was necessary that we drove two cars into Canada, even though there was only three of us. The first shuttle in particular presented a pressing feat of driving endurance. We were on our way to the fabled Taureau River, one of the most difficult runs in eastern Canada. The Taureau is fifteen miles long and cuts through some formidable terrain in the boreal forest of Jaques Cartier National Park approximately one hour north of Quebec City.
As we crossed the border, I stared down over the bridge into the clear and smoothly tilting waters of the Rift on the St. Lawrence. Moments of summer lilted like a soft ray of sunshine through my mind. I pushed the pedal and crept forward, slowly letting the breath of August course through my veins.
We stopped to grab some lunch along the way, and before long we were passing through Quebec City looking for the road north into Jaques Cartier Park. After a few wrong turns and an impressive view of the three hundred foot Montmorency Falls we found 175 and headed into the storm clouds looming on the horizon.
Quebec City is a majestic piece of urban ground set aloft on high ground hovering above the St. Lawrence River. As we corrected our course, I stared at the St. Lawrence, a pathway to home. When I am on the road it is usually not long before a baroque loneliness begins to chill my soul. This fact is not unappreciated, but rather it is interesting to me that I often long for this feeling of stony solitude. I consider it a necessary natural process of keeping the balance between my diametrically opposed internal workings of equal tendencies to be both an intro and extrovert.
It began to rain as we made our way into the park. We stopped at the booth and a strikingly cute young girl took our money in exchange for entrance. We headed down the windy road working our way toward the put-in. The sun was set, and the mist hung over the Taureau like a solemn totem, a foreboding warning that made the hair stand on the backs our necks. It was like traveling through the Gates of Mordor.
It took one hour to reach the take-out point. We dropped Jordan's car, loaded he and Nathan's boats on the Jeep and hung a few pieces of kayak gear from trees on the banks of the river so we knew where to take out.
It was nice to have some company, and just as we were about to leave a park ranger showed up and began to yell at us in broken english with a strong shot of a french accent. He thought we were going to try and illegally camp, but we explained we were only setting shuttle to run the river tomorrow. We made our plans clear to him so we could avoid a fine, but more so to make sure someone would come searching for us if things went wrong on the river. We were warned the river was very high by an experienced local guide.
Once things were settled with the park ranger, we were off on our two and a half hour shuttle to the put-in. There were no signs, no lights, and no gas stations on the way there, just mile after mile of tall wire fence lining the highway to keep the moose from crossing inconspicuously. Finally, we reached the entrance.
It was pouring and the fog was thick. We began our way down the dirt track into the Canadian wilderness. There is no way to describe the feeling other than ominous. Ten minutes down the dirt track and I jerked the wheel almost jumping out of my seat. A giant moose bounded out of the wood and into the road. We chased him for several minutes before he reared off into a small cut in the trees. The forest was dark and foreboding, thick with moss, ferns, and infinite bramble. It was impenetrable.
The dirt road ended, and I turned to Nathan to ask confirmation to continue. He remembered it steep and treacherous, so we plodded on. There was no more road, just an overgrown double track trail that seemed occasionally used by hikers and more likely moose. We descended downward for about twenty minutes when finally the trail became so tight it seemed the Jeep might no longer be able to pass through. The rain smashed the gun metal roof in angry droves. I hopped out of the car and stood in the rain. I felt as if the forest were swallowing me whole. I stared at the tiny sodden Jeep and knew it was our only lifeline, our only way back out. I hopped back in the driver's seat.
We backtracked up the trail and the tires immediately began to spin. I stopped the Jeep and put the car into four wheel drive. I pressed the pedal. Traction. Then, the tires began to spin and the Jeep slowed. Slow, slower, until our movement forward was nearly imperceptible. I knew that if we stopped, we were cooked. We would have been stuck in the middle of that thick black boreal forest, drenched in rain with no where to go, and many miles from anything or anyone.
We fishtailed wildly to the point where I thought I might lose control of the Jeep. We bounced dangerously up and down as the tires sloshed about in helpless desperation searching for some piece of solid ground. Inch by inch we moved forward, the engine whining in exhaustion, begging for mercy, but I knew there was none to be had until we were safely at the top. In a surge finally the tires bit solid ground and we climbed voraciously. The three of us breathed a sigh of relief. They congratulated me on my driving prowess. It was our first test as a group, and we had made it.
We made the decision to continue back to the entrance and make camp for the night in the rain. They set up a two man tent and I passed out in the back of the Jeep. My eyes closed and I gently drifted off to the pitter patter of rain drops on the windows.
When I awoke, I momentarily forgot where I was. The rain rolled rhythmically down the glass and the air was thick with a smokey fog.
A sense of ominous foreboding filled the air.
We were going kayaking, and the river was Richter high.
