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hope that other day is soon .. thanks again for anothe great write up.
Mégiscane River, Québec
- Thread starter Erica
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Days 27 - 28
Yesterday afternoon the wind blew from all four directions. Last night it blew so cold I unhooked and zipped tight the little ventilation slits at the top of the tent. I think I heard a bear last night, snuffling on three sides of the tent. I got up and grabbed the bear spray as quietly as I could. Too cold to leave the tent, but I sat at attention bear spray in hand. An hour later, hearing nothing more, I lay back down and slowly fell asleep.
Winds have buffeted me for three days. This morning, no wind. Relief for my ears. The sun is maize but blocked by substantial clouds. I snacked on what I could find. Drank Tang. Couldn't find the mango rollups. Huddling under the jack pines, I pondered my situation. There was no way I would make it even part way down the Mégiscane. At this rate it would take me weeks just to get to the middle pourvoirie. And would it even be open? Jean told me he was closing up his pourvoirie the first week in September and after that he would only be in now and then with hunters. It seemed reasonable that others might do the same. I decided I needed to get to the pourvoirie just outside of lac du Poét by the first week in September if I am going to get out of here. The uncertainty here was getting to me. This is more or less how I felt.
I watched the weather for about an hour, hoping to see it clear. Occasionally the sun would blow open the cloud cover to reveal a slit of blue. I decided that was good enough and prepared to leave.
After a couple of hours scouting and searching for a portage trail, I ran and lined the canoe through the first set of rapids. All went perfectly as planned. I felt ecstatic about how well the bridle system works and pleased over all. I was on the river again! On this trip I have to wring every drop of pleasure from my few successes.
Still inexplicably tired, upon reviewing and scouting the next set I made several errors. I saw a path through the rapids that in theory I could drag through, although there was not enough water. My tired brain told me to go ahead and try it. Hah! My cerebrum must have been totally on strike because there wasn't enough water, wasn't enough room between the boulders and the canoe became entirely rock bound, loaded, before I admitted defeat. I compounded this error by pulling and pushing as hard as I could, even hearing a crack a couple of times, until finally the rocks released the canoe into deeper water. As best I could tell, nothing was leaking so on we went. Lined past the second part of this rapid and was pleased to have us all at the bottom in one piece.
But the rapids were not done with us. Swift water grabbed the boat. I had to set the ferry angle and pull to shore again on river left.
One would think I would have learned by now, but I continued with more mistakes. Cerebrum still on strike. I got back in the boat with a half a plan to ferry to the middle and eddy turn river right into a tiny eddy. But the current was too strong, the eddy not far downstream and smaller than a Wee Lassie. I was pretty much useless at the helm at this point and the canoe promptly got snagged by two rocks, one bow and one stern. The current kept the canoe firmly in place in the middle of the river. I sat in the canoe for some time pondering my choices of which there were few. I stepped out of the boat on the upstream side, probably guided by the few neurons I had still working.
I held the stern at the ferry position and walked the boat toward the shore, scraping on rocks. All went well until the bottom dropped out and the canoe was unexpectedly ripped away from me. Luckily I was able to grab it in time and complete the ferry to river left. I was cold, exhausted and miserable.
I made camp in a micro-meadow filled with goldenrod and bottle gentian.
Yesterday afternoon the wind blew from all four directions. Last night it blew so cold I unhooked and zipped tight the little ventilation slits at the top of the tent. I think I heard a bear last night, snuffling on three sides of the tent. I got up and grabbed the bear spray as quietly as I could. Too cold to leave the tent, but I sat at attention bear spray in hand. An hour later, hearing nothing more, I lay back down and slowly fell asleep.
Winds have buffeted me for three days. This morning, no wind. Relief for my ears. The sun is maize but blocked by substantial clouds. I snacked on what I could find. Drank Tang. Couldn't find the mango rollups. Huddling under the jack pines, I pondered my situation. There was no way I would make it even part way down the Mégiscane. At this rate it would take me weeks just to get to the middle pourvoirie. And would it even be open? Jean told me he was closing up his pourvoirie the first week in September and after that he would only be in now and then with hunters. It seemed reasonable that others might do the same. I decided I needed to get to the pourvoirie just outside of lac du Poét by the first week in September if I am going to get out of here. The uncertainty here was getting to me. This is more or less how I felt.
I watched the weather for about an hour, hoping to see it clear. Occasionally the sun would blow open the cloud cover to reveal a slit of blue. I decided that was good enough and prepared to leave.
After a couple of hours scouting and searching for a portage trail, I ran and lined the canoe through the first set of rapids. All went perfectly as planned. I felt ecstatic about how well the bridle system works and pleased over all. I was on the river again! On this trip I have to wring every drop of pleasure from my few successes.
Still inexplicably tired, upon reviewing and scouting the next set I made several errors. I saw a path through the rapids that in theory I could drag through, although there was not enough water. My tired brain told me to go ahead and try it. Hah! My cerebrum must have been totally on strike because there wasn't enough water, wasn't enough room between the boulders and the canoe became entirely rock bound, loaded, before I admitted defeat. I compounded this error by pulling and pushing as hard as I could, even hearing a crack a couple of times, until finally the rocks released the canoe into deeper water. As best I could tell, nothing was leaking so on we went. Lined past the second part of this rapid and was pleased to have us all at the bottom in one piece.
But the rapids were not done with us. Swift water grabbed the boat. I had to set the ferry angle and pull to shore again on river left.
One would think I would have learned by now, but I continued with more mistakes. Cerebrum still on strike. I got back in the boat with a half a plan to ferry to the middle and eddy turn river right into a tiny eddy. But the current was too strong, the eddy not far downstream and smaller than a Wee Lassie. I was pretty much useless at the helm at this point and the canoe promptly got snagged by two rocks, one bow and one stern. The current kept the canoe firmly in place in the middle of the river. I sat in the canoe for some time pondering my choices of which there were few. I stepped out of the boat on the upstream side, probably guided by the few neurons I had still working.
I held the stern at the ferry position and walked the boat toward the shore, scraping on rocks. All went well until the bottom dropped out and the canoe was unexpectedly ripped away from me. Luckily I was able to grab it in time and complete the ferry to river left. I was cold, exhausted and miserable.
I made camp in a micro-meadow filled with goldenrod and bottle gentian.
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August 28-29, 2026.
Cold and windy came the dawn. Total low cloud cover. I didn't get out of the tent until 9 am and it was still looking grim. The wind cut through me. Chilly fingers struggled with pack straps. I was now worried about making it to the pourvoirie before they closed down for the winter. Still, anticipating the risk of hypothermia by getting wet in the rapids, I went back into the tent. Re-evaluated around noon. It was still cold and windy, but the temperature felt a bit warmer. I decided to try it. I lined the canoe and one pack to the bottom of the rapids but not cleanly. Baseball to grapefruit sized rocks spread widely on the verge, wet and treacherous.. I slipped twice; the second slip put me into a three quarters roll. By the time I got back to the tent, it was 4 pm. I had no energy for more. I crawled into the tent, huddled up and tried to get warm. It took a long time.
It rained hard that night and rained throughout the morning. Yesterday's fall exacerbated the shoulder pain. I could not delay more. I tried to keep my spirits up and focus on all that was good. The inside of the tent was mostly dry. My down sleeping bag had just a tiny bit wet at the bottom. I was alone in a beautiful land, cheering the sky every time a streak of blue opened up. But despite my earnest cheering, the periodic slices of blue, slide closed as easily as they had opened.
I struggled with getting the packs and gear down to the bottom of this rapids. There was no path through the shoreline or even a break in the brush. I tried it several times, hoping to open up a path, but it stayed closed and literally breath-taking. The rocks continued to be wet and slippery. I suddenly got an inspiration. Why not line the packs down the rapids. I could attached a rope or two, toss them in the water and have the water do the work.
The water battered the packs against the rocks. Sometimes the rocks stopped the packs and I had to jerk the lines around to free the pack. It was during this process I noticed the very first sign that someone else had traversed this river. A smudge of bright red on the tallest boulder. I believe this might be recped who descended this river earlier in spring when ice blocked their voyage. At the bottom, the blue pack suffered by losing a strap and the orange pack get a little water inside the pack, but not inside the liner. I called it a success.
Recped?
Going up and down this stretch of river gave me plenty of opportunities to examine the rocks. Here wer have agood example of what, in. Deeper water, could easily catch a foot and hold an unfortunate paddler under water.
The map showed yet another stretch of narrow water, which probably meant more rapids. I had spent the day so
far struggling with the portage and thought to my self if there was another portage, I would never make it. This is the negative voice which pops up whenever I am tired. I've learned to ignore it. And to my great surprise the river became something totally unexpected.
Without transition, it changed character. The banks turned to dry stone revetement. The riverbed was eased into wide S-shaped curves. The water was deep and fast. I had never seen anything like it. It stopped looking like a river and started looking like a Disney ride. The sky even cleared. I was in for more surprises when I reached Lac du Poét.
Cold and windy came the dawn. Total low cloud cover. I didn't get out of the tent until 9 am and it was still looking grim. The wind cut through me. Chilly fingers struggled with pack straps. I was now worried about making it to the pourvoirie before they closed down for the winter. Still, anticipating the risk of hypothermia by getting wet in the rapids, I went back into the tent. Re-evaluated around noon. It was still cold and windy, but the temperature felt a bit warmer. I decided to try it. I lined the canoe and one pack to the bottom of the rapids but not cleanly. Baseball to grapefruit sized rocks spread widely on the verge, wet and treacherous.. I slipped twice; the second slip put me into a three quarters roll. By the time I got back to the tent, it was 4 pm. I had no energy for more. I crawled into the tent, huddled up and tried to get warm. It took a long time.
It rained hard that night and rained throughout the morning. Yesterday's fall exacerbated the shoulder pain. I could not delay more. I tried to keep my spirits up and focus on all that was good. The inside of the tent was mostly dry. My down sleeping bag had just a tiny bit wet at the bottom. I was alone in a beautiful land, cheering the sky every time a streak of blue opened up. But despite my earnest cheering, the periodic slices of blue, slide closed as easily as they had opened.
I struggled with getting the packs and gear down to the bottom of this rapids. There was no path through the shoreline or even a break in the brush. I tried it several times, hoping to open up a path, but it stayed closed and literally breath-taking. The rocks continued to be wet and slippery. I suddenly got an inspiration. Why not line the packs down the rapids. I could attached a rope or two, toss them in the water and have the water do the work.
The water battered the packs against the rocks. Sometimes the rocks stopped the packs and I had to jerk the lines around to free the pack. It was during this process I noticed the very first sign that someone else had traversed this river. A smudge of bright red on the tallest boulder. I believe this might be recped who descended this river earlier in spring when ice blocked their voyage. At the bottom, the blue pack suffered by losing a strap and the orange pack get a little water inside the pack, but not inside the liner. I called it a success.
Recped?
Going up and down this stretch of river gave me plenty of opportunities to examine the rocks. Here wer have agood example of what, in. Deeper water, could easily catch a foot and hold an unfortunate paddler under water.
The map showed yet another stretch of narrow water, which probably meant more rapids. I had spent the day so
far struggling with the portage and thought to my self if there was another portage, I would never make it. This is the negative voice which pops up whenever I am tired. I've learned to ignore it. And to my great surprise the river became something totally unexpected.
Without transition, it changed character. The banks turned to dry stone revetement. The riverbed was eased into wide S-shaped curves. The water was deep and fast. I had never seen anything like it. It stopped looking like a river and started looking like a Disney ride. The sky even cleared. I was in for more surprises when I reached Lac du Poét.
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Lac du Poéte
The Disney ride spit me out and into Lac de Poéte with a middling sized bay to the right. This was the very first place I recognized from my trips 30 years ago. Back then, lower water levels made this a muddy backwater, but at the time we were tired and it was the best we could do. As I recall, a beaver played sentinel back and forth in front of our camp. Notes from a journal 30 years ago:
The beach is in a fairly ugly corner of the lake. The sun sets behind the wires. But [there was a] nice flat spot for tent, very few bugs. We'll take it. During dinner a beaver entertains us, checking us out carefully and then feeding on underwater vegetation nearby. We can hear his chewing. He is nearly all the way out of the water. He continues to feed as we move around and prepare for night. Through the binocs we get an excellent picture - ugly critter- half rat, half pig. Despite sun block and zinc oxide my lips are burned.
The area held little interest for me. I pushed on north and was so pleased to see the first of the paper birches for this trip. The sky with heavy with clouds, but it wasn't actually raining. Just about everything was wet from the last couple days of rain and water.
A beach on the right looked just about right. I pulled up and it was so delightful to be able to pull the boat up on the sand and execute a drama free exit. No level spot, exactly, but by clearing some driftwood and annoying some ants, I got the tent set up near the vegetation border. The sun came out. I got to put out all my wet clothing and set up Big Blue and for good measure, the Luci Light. Also, I did not empty the canoe but did run long lines to tie it to trees.
The view across the lake was beautiful except, of course, for the power lines.
Here I again encountered the beautiful little orange and black butterfly who was happy to pose for many pictures and hung out in camp for a good while.
I packed up to go off into the beautiful morning. I was on the one hand, looking forward to finishing this trip and on the other hand, I was so close to where the river really starts, reluctant. I had never paddled this side of lac du Poéte. The further north I went, the more little cottages and some major summer homes peppered the west side. It became clear there was a road on the west side and large trucks were trundling up and down the road, back and forth across the bridge, which I knew as the Barrage du Megiscane (Megiscane Dam.) Years ago we portaged over the dam and started our trip down the river. It had a much different character then. From my journal of 30 years ago.
The morning fog burns off quickly to a hot sunny morning. I devise a shade for my lips from a paper towel stuck under my hat. The lake is as smooth as glass. The Barrage du Megiscane is a queer structure - enormous weathered wood - can't imagine its purpose. Jacques suggested that Canada must also have its equivalent of the US Army Corps of Engineers (Well known for creating dams and canals where they are not necessary.) A pickup [truck] sits nearby. We portage over a "bridge" of makeshift boards and down steeply. Below is a beautiful pool. You can't believe that upstream there is so much trash and here is a pristine river.
Going over back to that dam and trying to hitch a ride back to the railroad was my Plan B, if it turned out the pourvoirie did not work out. And if nothing else, I would be able to gaze out over a river I truly loved.
So there I was was hugging the shore so as not to miss that channel that would bring me, presumably, to Réservoir Gouin and out, when my heart yearned for the river beyond. The shoreline and the canal are clearly marked on the topo, but the paddle seemed to go on forever and I started to worry I might have passed it already. I was coming up on a major vacation home, complete with lawn and big boats and I still didn't see a channel when - almost on top of this vacation home, the canal broke off to the right.
The canal appeared as a tranquil scene from a Disney movie. Vegetation covered the high shores and in many cases reaching out to arch over the water. Maples and birches lined higher shore. The surface of the water was still and mirror-like. Pointed downstream, I realized there was a downstream and quite a current in spite of the stillness. Both water and air were still hushed like the inside of a chapel. It wasn't too long before I realized I had jettisoned my Plan B. It was unlikely I could paddle up this current. The water was too deep to walk back up, the shoreline impassable and I estimated the current at three miles per hour. To do the latter, I stopped paddling and just let the canoe drift and the shore slipped by about as fast as I could walk.
I was wondering if there was boat traffic on this water and if there was, how it would affect my boat. Just then a motor boat appeared from down stream steaming upstream. I moved to the side of the rather narrow canal and the pilot decelerated and it wasn't too bad. Next I came upon a bridge and dump trucks going over the bridge making a hug racket. The map showed the canal should be nearly at the end. The canal opened up into a bay of the Réservoir Gouin, with an island right in front of me.
I turned left and approached La Pourvoirie Martin, which was quite large, not like Monet at all. I had to paddle some for some time to get past it. It was totally deserted. There was no obvious headquarters or office. I pulled in at the end and pushed the canoe up on the muddy sand. I disembarked and walked up towards the buildings. I saw a man through an open door with the appearance of an office inside.
Here finally, was the exception I mentioned at the outset.
He denied he spoke English, although in retrospect I could see he did. I explained my plight in French and that I was hoping to find someone who could help me get back to Monet or anywhere on the trainline. He went into a rant which included, many times, that he could not help me, that I was disturbing him on the busiest day of the year and I should just go away. We then launched into a protracted French discussion of telephones and did I have one - I did but it didn't work up there. Did he have a phone - yes but I couldn't use it. I repeatedly apologized for the situation and my very existence. He finally brought me out a phone and I tried to call Jean at Monet, but only got the office and the voice mail was full. I relayed this information to the man and he basically said, too bad you are on your own.
I walked down to the canoe downcast, like Linus walking off dragging his blanket. There was nothing to do but get into the canoe and push off. But where to go?
The Disney ride spit me out and into Lac de Poéte with a middling sized bay to the right. This was the very first place I recognized from my trips 30 years ago. Back then, lower water levels made this a muddy backwater, but at the time we were tired and it was the best we could do. As I recall, a beaver played sentinel back and forth in front of our camp. Notes from a journal 30 years ago:
The beach is in a fairly ugly corner of the lake. The sun sets behind the wires. But [there was a] nice flat spot for tent, very few bugs. We'll take it. During dinner a beaver entertains us, checking us out carefully and then feeding on underwater vegetation nearby. We can hear his chewing. He is nearly all the way out of the water. He continues to feed as we move around and prepare for night. Through the binocs we get an excellent picture - ugly critter- half rat, half pig. Despite sun block and zinc oxide my lips are burned.
The area held little interest for me. I pushed on north and was so pleased to see the first of the paper birches for this trip. The sky with heavy with clouds, but it wasn't actually raining. Just about everything was wet from the last couple days of rain and water.
A beach on the right looked just about right. I pulled up and it was so delightful to be able to pull the boat up on the sand and execute a drama free exit. No level spot, exactly, but by clearing some driftwood and annoying some ants, I got the tent set up near the vegetation border. The sun came out. I got to put out all my wet clothing and set up Big Blue and for good measure, the Luci Light. Also, I did not empty the canoe but did run long lines to tie it to trees.
The view across the lake was beautiful except, of course, for the power lines.
Here I again encountered the beautiful little orange and black butterfly who was happy to pose for many pictures and hung out in camp for a good while.
I packed up to go off into the beautiful morning. I was on the one hand, looking forward to finishing this trip and on the other hand, I was so close to where the river really starts, reluctant. I had never paddled this side of lac du Poéte. The further north I went, the more little cottages and some major summer homes peppered the west side. It became clear there was a road on the west side and large trucks were trundling up and down the road, back and forth across the bridge, which I knew as the Barrage du Megiscane (Megiscane Dam.) Years ago we portaged over the dam and started our trip down the river. It had a much different character then. From my journal of 30 years ago.
The morning fog burns off quickly to a hot sunny morning. I devise a shade for my lips from a paper towel stuck under my hat. The lake is as smooth as glass. The Barrage du Megiscane is a queer structure - enormous weathered wood - can't imagine its purpose. Jacques suggested that Canada must also have its equivalent of the US Army Corps of Engineers (Well known for creating dams and canals where they are not necessary.) A pickup [truck] sits nearby. We portage over a "bridge" of makeshift boards and down steeply. Below is a beautiful pool. You can't believe that upstream there is so much trash and here is a pristine river.
Going over back to that dam and trying to hitch a ride back to the railroad was my Plan B, if it turned out the pourvoirie did not work out. And if nothing else, I would be able to gaze out over a river I truly loved.
So there I was was hugging the shore so as not to miss that channel that would bring me, presumably, to Réservoir Gouin and out, when my heart yearned for the river beyond. The shoreline and the canal are clearly marked on the topo, but the paddle seemed to go on forever and I started to worry I might have passed it already. I was coming up on a major vacation home, complete with lawn and big boats and I still didn't see a channel when - almost on top of this vacation home, the canal broke off to the right.
The canal appeared as a tranquil scene from a Disney movie. Vegetation covered the high shores and in many cases reaching out to arch over the water. Maples and birches lined higher shore. The surface of the water was still and mirror-like. Pointed downstream, I realized there was a downstream and quite a current in spite of the stillness. Both water and air were still hushed like the inside of a chapel. It wasn't too long before I realized I had jettisoned my Plan B. It was unlikely I could paddle up this current. The water was too deep to walk back up, the shoreline impassable and I estimated the current at three miles per hour. To do the latter, I stopped paddling and just let the canoe drift and the shore slipped by about as fast as I could walk.
I was wondering if there was boat traffic on this water and if there was, how it would affect my boat. Just then a motor boat appeared from down stream steaming upstream. I moved to the side of the rather narrow canal and the pilot decelerated and it wasn't too bad. Next I came upon a bridge and dump trucks going over the bridge making a hug racket. The map showed the canal should be nearly at the end. The canal opened up into a bay of the Réservoir Gouin, with an island right in front of me.
I turned left and approached La Pourvoirie Martin, which was quite large, not like Monet at all. I had to paddle some for some time to get past it. It was totally deserted. There was no obvious headquarters or office. I pulled in at the end and pushed the canoe up on the muddy sand. I disembarked and walked up towards the buildings. I saw a man through an open door with the appearance of an office inside.
Here finally, was the exception I mentioned at the outset.
He denied he spoke English, although in retrospect I could see he did. I explained my plight in French and that I was hoping to find someone who could help me get back to Monet or anywhere on the trainline. He went into a rant which included, many times, that he could not help me, that I was disturbing him on the busiest day of the year and I should just go away. We then launched into a protracted French discussion of telephones and did I have one - I did but it didn't work up there. Did he have a phone - yes but I couldn't use it. I repeatedly apologized for the situation and my very existence. He finally brought me out a phone and I tried to call Jean at Monet, but only got the office and the voice mail was full. I relayed this information to the man and he basically said, too bad you are on your own.
I walked down to the canoe downcast, like Linus walking off dragging his blanket. There was nothing to do but get into the canoe and push off. But where to go?
oh I know this kind of walk also very well ...
Erica, you may indeed have spotted our royalex tracks, but the culprit would have been Tom or I as Recped paddled a yellow canoe. Your photos reveal an entirely different river than the high water/ ice-out version we experienced.
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My mistake, I remembered repced’s canoe as being red.
I’m sure the water was much higher when you went through.
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Searching for the End
The Mégiscane River is generally considered to begin at a small lake near Monet called Lac Octavie. A string of other small connected lakes lie upstream of it, so I'm not sure why that point was chosen, possibly because there's no access to the lakes further upstream. From Lac Octavie the river runs through a string of lakes, heading generally north, up to Lac Poète. When the water is high enough — and the ice is out — you could probably run it in a few days at most. Recped said somewhere that he wanted to start "at the beginning of the river," and the new guidebook from the Rivieres et Lacs Canotables du Quebec starts the Mégiscane at the Barrage Mégiscane. There's now decent road access to that point. It's what the canoe club recommends, and after this trip, I'd agree.
The hydrology of the area has changed since I was there last. The major changes occurred in 1954, but they must have done more renovation since I was there thirty years ago. All the rivers in the area are diverted to lac de Poete and from there into a series of canals that lead to the Réservoir Gouin and from there into the Rivière Saint-Maurice, where Hydro-Québec has hydroelectric dams.
I saw only one mammal: a red squirrel, when I reached Réservoir Gouin. I also saw moose tracks around the edge of the lake I was camped at, and signs of beaver: cuts on trees. And that was it for the nonhuman mammals. A few birds flitted about in the bushes, some ducks, maybe an eagle or two. The edges of the river were plaited with dried white lake plants on the rocks, and gummy, unpleasant mud around all the edges. No clear water. I enjoy flowers and plants, and there were plenty. No good camping places.
Recped, if you still want to do the Mégiscane again, I'd start at the Barrage Mégiscane. That's where the river really commences, and there seem to be decent, well-used forestry roads going to it. Upstream, too much has changed.
Or you — editorially — could start with the Rivière Kekek, for which there's a description from the Canot Club of Québec. It was described as having more whitewater than the Mégiscane, and if it hasn't been modified, it would be another good way to enter the Mégiscane River. It joins the Mégiscane below the Barrage Mégiscane.
For someone truly adventurous, one could try paddling down the Suzie River. The upper river sounds like a pretty place, well forested. Jean told me that river doesn't go to the Mégiscane, but studying Google Earth, it looks to me like it could be done. The Suzie has been altered hydrologically too — it terminates in a straight canal running into Réservoir Gouin.
Having now examined these references at length, I am not at all sure the false start I got was on Suzie Riviere. I have not found a map on which it is labeled.
Meanwhile, I have been ejected from the pourvoirie Martin and am dejected. But once on the water, problems seem to fade. In the absence of a Plan B I decided to find a place to camp so I can consider my next move. The area was pretty quiet. I paddled around a large island, hoping to find a place there, with no luck.
The island. It was much larger than it seemed, stretching out of sight behind.
I paddled around the bay for a bit. Summer houses, some quite lovely, were scattered here and there. I could not find a place away from the houses. So I stopped on a small slab of rock on a small peninsula and decided to set up camp there. No flat space. No place void of woody brush. After three weeks of sleeping on brush, stakes, rocks, etc. it looked good to me.
Peninsula for camping. Nothing flat, but at least bare rock. The ground just behind the rock dips and I just plonked the tent on top and bent over branches as needed. Many were needed.
By this time, I had been out around three weeks. Contents of the food bag were greatly diminished. Yet, hoisting a pack out of the canoe was now a Sisyphean chore. Under normal circumstances, on a long canoe trip, muscles become stronger, coordination is better. Instead gravity seemed to have increased, as if I had traveled to Jupiter.
Sitting on a rock, I took inventory. Hip: full range of motion, no complaint there. Shoulder: functional unless I moved it wrong -- then it was like being run through with a hot spike. Heart: I didn't want to think about the heart. Not after the chest pain on the first night. Constantly out of breath. Rest wasn't helping.
Got camp set up. Threw the tent on top of all the alder bushes. Threw the bedtime pack and sleeping back inside and called it good. I was just starting to enjoy this bit of paradise, when motor boats started coming in. And coming in. And coming in. Lucky for me, they were turning right into the canal instead of left in the direction of my camp. Until one did. A pontoon boat with four men and they pulled up and into the little house right across the way.
Camp across from me. Four men in a pontoon boat. You can only see the dock and a bit of the cabin here.
It took a long time for them to unload which was good because it took a long time for me to get up the gumption to paddle over and see if I could hitch a ride to Senneterre. I don't know where I get the courage to approach strangers and ask for a lift. I'd rather run a class III ledge. So I pulled up alongside their dock, right next to a man doing something with a bucket. I don't know if he was hard of hearing or concentrating on his job so much that he didn't hear me approach, but after long uncomfortable moments during which time I considered seriously that perhaps I had become invisible, I said, in French, "Excuse me. Hello. Do you speak English?" He looked up as if surprised to see me there. He told me he did not speak English. I explained my situation and request in broken French. He could not understand this either. I couldn't understand him -- he spoke Quebecois.
Finally some other guys came down and while nice enough, I got the feeling I was crashing their all men weekend. I repeated my request and explained what I was doing and that I needed help many times, to each of them. Finally one fellow confessed to some English. I heard they were leaving for - Senneterre- the next morning, early. (Here’s where I hold my breath, cross my fingers and pray to those guardian angels.)
They recommended many times that I speak to the Martin Pourvoirie and I had to explain again and again that he refused to help me. I heard one man distinctly say that he did not want me to be helped by them either. They recommended I try at another pourvoirie that was through another canal and north and then in one of several cuts into the mainland. But none of my maps went that far. I told them I refused to travel somewhere in the Quebec wilderness without a map. They came up with a basic map provided by Martin Pourvoirie and I agreed I would try it..
Even though I was bone tired, I started out with the pourvoirie map. It turns out there is another canal much shorter, really just an extension of an inland cut. And then I headed north. I paddled for several hours and knew I was getting close to crashing. I felt morally obligated to do my best to find this pourvoire, but when I got to the place where there were inland cuts and long islands I was stumped. Some of the inland cuts were dead ends and some went around islands and there was no way to tell from the water where this pourvoirie might be, especially when all I had was a cartoon map and and estimated location.
Mulling over my obligation to continue searching through a maze of islands, I rested in the canoe. The map was a joke. Was the inked dot in the right place? I didn't know if the pourvoirie existed or if it was open.
Running on fumes now, I was alone in the Quebec wilderness with a cartoon map. My duty to the fishermen fulfilled, I turned around and paddled back. A breath of wind at my back eased my return.
I met with the four fishermen again and told them I could not find the other pourvoirie. We discussed it more in a mix of two languages, three if you count Quebecois. At some point, one man hit the top of his head and said with great pleasure, "She has a *car* in Senneterre. She just wants a *ride* to Senneterre and then she will drive back here to get her gear." They all repeated it to each other, delighted -- information I thought was obvious from the start. Clearly it hadn't been.
Yes, they could give me a ride to Senneterre. They were leaving really early, like 9 am and I had to be ready then. And I was.
Sunset through the tent fly on my last night on the water.
I showed up bright and early while they were still loading up and I unloaded my gear and beached the canoe. I started walking my gear up the steep, long access and could barely make it. With nothing more to do themselves, many of them started hauling my packs and gear up. I was still exhausted. I didn't understand why resting and daily exercise was depleting me, rather than building me up. As I was pondering where to put the canoe - drag it off the access road and leave it in the bushes because I knew I could not get it up that steep slope. Without asking, the men hauled the canoe up and left it by the house. Bless them.
They didn’t want to carry my canoe up the ramp either. One truck backed down, they threw the canoe on the back end and brought it up to the cabin for me. Bless them.
At first it looked to me as if they had only one truck and I could understand their reluctance to try to fit me in. Later it became clear there were two trucks and I tried to help with some of their last packs and garbage bags, but I pretty much was just in the way. I stood back until I was directed into the back seat of one of the pickups. And off we went. The exciting part of my trip was over. I thought.
Suddenly, I realized in a panic, I would not know how to find this cottage again. I communicated my dismay to my rescuers and was giving directions in English and Quebecois, but I can't remember directions even when given in English in the US. I had no paper and no writing implements. How would I find my way back?
The Mégiscane River is generally considered to begin at a small lake near Monet called Lac Octavie. A string of other small connected lakes lie upstream of it, so I'm not sure why that point was chosen, possibly because there's no access to the lakes further upstream. From Lac Octavie the river runs through a string of lakes, heading generally north, up to Lac Poète. When the water is high enough — and the ice is out — you could probably run it in a few days at most. Recped said somewhere that he wanted to start "at the beginning of the river," and the new guidebook from the Rivieres et Lacs Canotables du Quebec starts the Mégiscane at the Barrage Mégiscane. There's now decent road access to that point. It's what the canoe club recommends, and after this trip, I'd agree.
The hydrology of the area has changed since I was there last. The major changes occurred in 1954, but they must have done more renovation since I was there thirty years ago. All the rivers in the area are diverted to lac de Poete and from there into a series of canals that lead to the Réservoir Gouin and from there into the Rivière Saint-Maurice, where Hydro-Québec has hydroelectric dams.
I saw only one mammal: a red squirrel, when I reached Réservoir Gouin. I also saw moose tracks around the edge of the lake I was camped at, and signs of beaver: cuts on trees. And that was it for the nonhuman mammals. A few birds flitted about in the bushes, some ducks, maybe an eagle or two. The edges of the river were plaited with dried white lake plants on the rocks, and gummy, unpleasant mud around all the edges. No clear water. I enjoy flowers and plants, and there were plenty. No good camping places.
Recped, if you still want to do the Mégiscane again, I'd start at the Barrage Mégiscane. That's where the river really commences, and there seem to be decent, well-used forestry roads going to it. Upstream, too much has changed.
Or you — editorially — could start with the Rivière Kekek, for which there's a description from the Canot Club of Québec. It was described as having more whitewater than the Mégiscane, and if it hasn't been modified, it would be another good way to enter the Mégiscane River. It joins the Mégiscane below the Barrage Mégiscane.
For someone truly adventurous, one could try paddling down the Suzie River. The upper river sounds like a pretty place, well forested. Jean told me that river doesn't go to the Mégiscane, but studying Google Earth, it looks to me like it could be done. The Suzie has been altered hydrologically too — it terminates in a straight canal running into Réservoir Gouin.
Having now examined these references at length, I am not at all sure the false start I got was on Suzie Riviere. I have not found a map on which it is labeled.
Meanwhile, I have been ejected from the pourvoirie Martin and am dejected. But once on the water, problems seem to fade. In the absence of a Plan B I decided to find a place to camp so I can consider my next move. The area was pretty quiet. I paddled around a large island, hoping to find a place there, with no luck.
The island. It was much larger than it seemed, stretching out of sight behind.
I paddled around the bay for a bit. Summer houses, some quite lovely, were scattered here and there. I could not find a place away from the houses. So I stopped on a small slab of rock on a small peninsula and decided to set up camp there. No flat space. No place void of woody brush. After three weeks of sleeping on brush, stakes, rocks, etc. it looked good to me.
Peninsula for camping. Nothing flat, but at least bare rock. The ground just behind the rock dips and I just plonked the tent on top and bent over branches as needed. Many were needed.
By this time, I had been out around three weeks. Contents of the food bag were greatly diminished. Yet, hoisting a pack out of the canoe was now a Sisyphean chore. Under normal circumstances, on a long canoe trip, muscles become stronger, coordination is better. Instead gravity seemed to have increased, as if I had traveled to Jupiter.
Sitting on a rock, I took inventory. Hip: full range of motion, no complaint there. Shoulder: functional unless I moved it wrong -- then it was like being run through with a hot spike. Heart: I didn't want to think about the heart. Not after the chest pain on the first night. Constantly out of breath. Rest wasn't helping.
Got camp set up. Threw the tent on top of all the alder bushes. Threw the bedtime pack and sleeping back inside and called it good. I was just starting to enjoy this bit of paradise, when motor boats started coming in. And coming in. And coming in. Lucky for me, they were turning right into the canal instead of left in the direction of my camp. Until one did. A pontoon boat with four men and they pulled up and into the little house right across the way.
Camp across from me. Four men in a pontoon boat. You can only see the dock and a bit of the cabin here.
It took a long time for them to unload which was good because it took a long time for me to get up the gumption to paddle over and see if I could hitch a ride to Senneterre. I don't know where I get the courage to approach strangers and ask for a lift. I'd rather run a class III ledge. So I pulled up alongside their dock, right next to a man doing something with a bucket. I don't know if he was hard of hearing or concentrating on his job so much that he didn't hear me approach, but after long uncomfortable moments during which time I considered seriously that perhaps I had become invisible, I said, in French, "Excuse me. Hello. Do you speak English?" He looked up as if surprised to see me there. He told me he did not speak English. I explained my situation and request in broken French. He could not understand this either. I couldn't understand him -- he spoke Quebecois.
Finally some other guys came down and while nice enough, I got the feeling I was crashing their all men weekend. I repeated my request and explained what I was doing and that I needed help many times, to each of them. Finally one fellow confessed to some English. I heard they were leaving for - Senneterre- the next morning, early. (Here’s where I hold my breath, cross my fingers and pray to those guardian angels.)
They recommended many times that I speak to the Martin Pourvoirie and I had to explain again and again that he refused to help me. I heard one man distinctly say that he did not want me to be helped by them either. They recommended I try at another pourvoirie that was through another canal and north and then in one of several cuts into the mainland. But none of my maps went that far. I told them I refused to travel somewhere in the Quebec wilderness without a map. They came up with a basic map provided by Martin Pourvoirie and I agreed I would try it..
Even though I was bone tired, I started out with the pourvoirie map. It turns out there is another canal much shorter, really just an extension of an inland cut. And then I headed north. I paddled for several hours and knew I was getting close to crashing. I felt morally obligated to do my best to find this pourvoire, but when I got to the place where there were inland cuts and long islands I was stumped. Some of the inland cuts were dead ends and some went around islands and there was no way to tell from the water where this pourvoirie might be, especially when all I had was a cartoon map and and estimated location.
Mulling over my obligation to continue searching through a maze of islands, I rested in the canoe. The map was a joke. Was the inked dot in the right place? I didn't know if the pourvoirie existed or if it was open.
Running on fumes now, I was alone in the Quebec wilderness with a cartoon map. My duty to the fishermen fulfilled, I turned around and paddled back. A breath of wind at my back eased my return.
I met with the four fishermen again and told them I could not find the other pourvoirie. We discussed it more in a mix of two languages, three if you count Quebecois. At some point, one man hit the top of his head and said with great pleasure, "She has a *car* in Senneterre. She just wants a *ride* to Senneterre and then she will drive back here to get her gear." They all repeated it to each other, delighted -- information I thought was obvious from the start. Clearly it hadn't been.
Yes, they could give me a ride to Senneterre. They were leaving really early, like 9 am and I had to be ready then. And I was.
Sunset through the tent fly on my last night on the water.
I showed up bright and early while they were still loading up and I unloaded my gear and beached the canoe. I started walking my gear up the steep, long access and could barely make it. With nothing more to do themselves, many of them started hauling my packs and gear up. I was still exhausted. I didn't understand why resting and daily exercise was depleting me, rather than building me up. As I was pondering where to put the canoe - drag it off the access road and leave it in the bushes because I knew I could not get it up that steep slope. Without asking, the men hauled the canoe up and left it by the house. Bless them.
They didn’t want to carry my canoe up the ramp either. One truck backed down, they threw the canoe on the back end and brought it up to the cabin for me. Bless them.
At first it looked to me as if they had only one truck and I could understand their reluctance to try to fit me in. Later it became clear there were two trucks and I tried to help with some of their last packs and garbage bags, but I pretty much was just in the way. I stood back until I was directed into the back seat of one of the pickups. And off we went. The exciting part of my trip was over. I thought.
Suddenly, I realized in a panic, I would not know how to find this cottage again. I communicated my dismay to my rescuers and was giving directions in English and Quebecois, but I can't remember directions even when given in English in the US. I had no paper and no writing implements. How would I find my way back?
