Northshore Journal: A Tale from the Degrade

The Voyageurs knew what to do when they pulled into shore at storm (degrade) based on the conditions of the shoreline – or if indeed it were a false shoreline altogether.  Many times, with fog as thick as paste, shore would be called out, but the rocks were nothing more than a stone outcropping from some small desolate island, which would not hold the likes of a brigade in ten foot waves.  If it were the Superior shore, the men would in due order determine how best to secure the fur pack.  This time the squall had reached a fevered pitched quickly.  They tied down the sterns of the canoes and decided to leave the packs on board, for now, and would go back to retrieve them after the heaviest had fallen, then dry them out in the bushes.

One of the middle oarsman would take his sponge to the floor of his canoe and rid it of water.  There was always that time when, as the men congregated up at shore – hopefully accommodating enough to lay upon – when they found themselves having to quickly asses all of their work, all of their paddling to this point, even their entire coming careers, for if the load were to get swamped, or canoes ruined, there was little recourse at this point to regain the load.  The more experienced avants would try to put the new recruits to ease by gesturing to the pipe, singing a rollicking song, or telling a story by a smudge fire.  "It was my own first Montreal Express, many many moons ago, when this very same sort of flash squall came.  We thought that we might find refuge at Cascade Falls, back some range now, and decided to climb the stones of the falls thinking we might find a cave or maybe some blueberries upriver. "  The avant had a grisled but handsome face, maybe fifty-seven, but nobody knew age exactly, and was notorious for his own habit of pipe – he did not wait for the hour or two hour breaks, but perpetually kept his own pipe hanging from the side of his lip even on paddle.  Somehow, the men did not know, he kept it just barely puffing of smoke throughout any given day. "So, we climb up to the top portion of the Cascade Falls.  It is roaring loud, not like anything you have heard.  You could not hear a man yell in your ear if he was next to you, and as we look up, through the rising fog, what is it that we see, face to face?"

"Blueberries," one man cast out in a shout, his hides soaking, his hat sagging all around the brim.  "Blueberries, yes," the avant cried out.  "But also standing there, no farther than I stand to you," he gestured to one man a foot away, "the deepest darkest black bear you'd ever imagine.  I made eye contact with him as if it were a first kiss with a sweetheart," he leaned in and chuckled, holding his pipe to his chest.  "The bear, this is no kidding, opened up his eye lids as wide as gulls' wings, raised his nose in a pucker, and bolted off back into the safety of the woods."  The men, around in a half circle now, looked around in unison over their shoulders to the thick skirt of pine forest that rose up off the flat rocks into a vast jagged fog.