The Sinking of Many Waters.

How Kola.

Many years back, during the long nights of the summer moon they came from the Parks Service, and wanted to make pictures of me and Anahareo. So we were not much for having the men bunk in our cabin. The men drank and smelled of chew, and would throw bottles at Jellyroll and Rawhide. The beavers would slap their tails at the camera, but knew me and Anahareo would protect them. So here is what the men made as their motion picture, which I will share with you before telling my story.

It’s not about the beavers.

When I hear men in these cities that have never sat the souls in a good Indian canoe, I wonder how such white men can think they are alive. If you are to know the secrets of this world, you must keep in your heart the thrill of the backcountry, the tipping of the canot over some rapids, and the wonders of paddling across a still and moonlight lake. I have always said, give me a good canoe, a pair of Jibway snowshoes, my beaver, my family and 10,000 square miles of wilderness and I am happy. The old voyageurs had it right. There is no life so happy as a voyageur’s life; none so independent; no place where a man enjoys so much variety and freedom as in the Indian country. Huzza, huzza pour le pays sauvage! And it is because of the wonder of powering through the current under one’s own power, with freedom and dominion over all you survey.

I read from one of the Parks Service men that now some white men are sinking their canoes, sending them to the bottom of Champlain and sending them up to Gaspe, rather than to pitch them, patch them and portage them as they ought. A man ought to respect his canoe and keep it, lift it over the rocks and protect it from the snows. You don’t have to be some hivernant to know that your canoe is more than just your means of transporting from the Interior back to the St Lawrence – it is your home and your livelihood.

All that keeps you from the ice and rapids is some pine pitch, sewn birch bark and cross braces of wood. When you tell me that you mean to breach the hull of your boat and send it to the deep, I hear you saying that you are sending your soul down with it. I don’t care if you are paddling a canot de maitre or a simple canot du nord — it is transporting your blankets, your beads, your tobacco and your fire-sticks, so you had better take care of it. You remember that.

I’ll be seeing you.