I had to look at the maps, and I am fairly certain where you were dropped off, but will wait for the reveal. A GPS is a wonderful thing, I don't leave home without it.
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Happy Pretend to be a Time Traveler Day! 🕰️🪱🕳️
Mégiscane River, Québec
- Thread starter Erica
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Pondering and Plans A, B, C, and D
Early morning, raindrops splat on the tent. I jump up and spread the fly over the tent. There's no room to stake it. So it just lies there. I listen to the droplets hit the tent and hope it won't leak.
The forest is quiet. The falls burble. I’m out boiling some water. The canoe, tent and Trangia are all clumped together as if we are guarding ourselves. The canoe is just above my right foot, hiding in the dense brush.
Time to Think:
Plan A, Enter a period of depression. I had failed. I should just turn around, haul myself up the embankment and wait for a train to take me back to Senneterre. I could drive home with my tail between my legs and what, oh what, would I tell the canoetripping.net forum? Maybe if I just didn't mention it at all, everyone would forget about it..
After cogitating briefly, I realized how utterly stupid this plan was. I was here in beautiful near North Quebec with a canoe and everything I needed for a trip. It was just plain idiotic. Mindless. Dumb. Foolish. Thick. Moronic. OK. Done with Plan A and negative talk.
A few months before I left for this trip, I was reading "River of Doubt" by Candice Millard. The subtitle is "Theodore Rooseveldt's Darkest Journey" which may explain why I stopped reading it as the death toll rose higher and higher. If you haven't read it, it would make good reading for northern climes in winter when there is little chance of starting a major expedition.
What did grab me about this book, and tales of other early explorers, is that they went where they had no idea of where they were going. Just an idea like, "I heard there is a tributary to the Amazon over there. Let's go see if we can find it." Or, "There must be a way to boat through the arctic, a northern passage as it were. Let's go find it." I found myself wishing I could be on a trip where I didn't know where I was going, just a compass and map (or maybe not a map) and some sense of what the geography was like. Maybe I was being offered this experience?
The rain has stopped and blue sky appeared.
Plan B: I suspected that all these rivers ran north into the Megiscane at some point. In theory, I could just keep going, find the Megiscane and get on with my trip, a la Theodore and Kermit but without the hundreds of support staff. Intriguing...
But, I had no map covering my current location. For the first time in more than 30 years I have cut off the parts of the map that I didn't need, in order to save weight. Note to self: do not do that again. Also, how would I know when I found the Megiscane? It's not like there are neon lights, or even rough wood signs. Large portions of the Megiscane River camouflage themselves as lakes. I could make this stab at a real exploration and if worse came to worse, I could push the SOS button on the SPOT and be rescued.
Uh, no. That is way too irresponsible. That is an abuse of the rescue system. Can't do that.
Plan C. There had been a bridge over the water, presumably with a road running over it. I just barely noted it as I whisked by in a small riverine rapid. Maybe it was a road. Maybe the road was still used. Maybe someone would help me get to Monet. Maybe someone fueled with alcohol would beat me up and rob me and leave me to crawl back into the woods.
I'd been sitting still for quite some time, next to the Trangia and the canoe, trying to decide what to do. A little brown bird suddenly landed on a gunwale and looked at me. I looked at the bird and we looked at each other in silence. The bird was so close I could see individual feathers. The bird then flapped just a couple of feet into an adler bush, but still looking at me. Then flitted over to another branch and then flew away. A curious bird. It made not a sound.
Plan D. I could retrace my route, all the way back up to the railroad, flag down a train and let it take me to Monet. Except I don't know which way Monet is, therefore, which side of the train to be on. I could not bear the idea of hauling the gear and the canoe back upstream and back up the nearly verticle railroad embankment.
Just for the sake of fun, I decided to try to figure out the slope of the railroad embankment. According to ChatGPT, the steepest angle permitted in railroad embankments in Canada is approximately 27 degrees. I took a look at diagrams of 26 degree angles, and it was steeper than that. I could not walk down it. Most of the time I had to carefully scoot because there were grapefruit sized rocks, soccer ball sized rocks and larger boulders, large downed branches, and gullies. Standing up without having a tree to prop me up was impossible. And this was the easy side. The other side of the embankment went almost straight down.
My best judgment here, something like the length of a fish, is that the slope was at 45 degrees. It was at least 45 degrees near the top and near the bottom it leveled out some, but that wording gives the impression it was level at all and it wasn't. It was always a contest to stay upright.
Just the thought of trying to do this was bringing me to tears, so I turned my focus back to Plan C.
I took down the tent and threw the bags into the boat. I forgot to take a photo of the tent before I took it down, but if you look closely, you can see the coffin shaped mat where I slept.
Having checked for gators, I slid into the water. At two to three feet deep, I couldn't step in without swamping the boat. We swam together, Dancer and I, up this little river. I viewed the tree crossing the entire river with a sinking feeling. It felt impossible—like every part of me was giving out. I felt completely worn out—rest no longer seemed to help.
The barrier. There is not enough room under on river-right (left in the photo) and the tree extends all the way across and up the other side.
But I had just been reading one of Michael Pitt's book in which he chortles about sneaking around unrunnable rapids. He claims that one of the finest pleasures in life is tricking a river out of the work it expects you to do on a portage.
With Michael as inspiration, I took the boat with me to the far river-left where the tippy top of the tree had landed. I squirmed my way onto the trunk so that I was sitting on it, with my full weight on the tree. Once I sat on the branch, it sagged under my weight (This had to be the only time I had been glad for the weight I gained when older.) I was able to pull and then push the boat over the trunk. Hurray. Michael was right. And I was inordinately pleased with myself.
I wish now I had taken more photos of this part of the trip, because it was quite beautiful and it would also document just how decrepit and delapidated the anticipated bridge was. It was concrete. From below, there were no visible railings. And lush bushes and forbs sprouted out of all the cracks. Worse yet, a tree some 7 feet tall appeared to be growing in the middle of it. It looked so awful and I was so tired, I almost decided not to hike up the very steep embankment which, after a brief level section, was almost straight up.
But I also didn't want to climb up the railway embankment either, so I tied off the boat and slowly scrambled my way to the top.
My goodness. It was a road and a wide one at that. The bridge was in less than peak condition, but it was a road. Maybe I would get lucky.
I still had to plan. What would I do if no one came today? There were some flat places near the road. I could set up the tent. What if no one came tomorrow? How many days would I give it here? What if someone came and didn't want to help? What would I do if the people who saw me were aggressive? Run? Hide?
My plan was to ask someone where Monet was and if it was walkable, I would walk there. If not, I could ask for a ride. I would not expect someone to load up my canoe and all gear. I would go to the pourvoirie in Monet and ask for help there and expect to pay someone.
I needed to get up at least a day pack of stuff from the canoe. What if I left for the canoe and someone came while I wasn't up there watching? I tried writing by scratching in the gravel that I needed help. But it was completely invisible to a vehicle.
If this didn't work, I could still get the train. But which way? Forward or back? What if.... One thing at a time, I said to myself. You don't need to have Plan D totally worked out when you were so far into Plan C. I scooted down to the canoe, packed up a few things and then crawled back up.
I got up to the road and settled in to wait. I walked to the bridge and up the other side a bit. I took some pictures. I looked at the butterflies and the flowers. Below are snaps of upstream and downstream with a bit of the deteriorated rails which were only a foot tall, if that. And also two flowers.
Time ticked by. It was getting late in the day. Would anyone come by?
Early morning, raindrops splat on the tent. I jump up and spread the fly over the tent. There's no room to stake it. So it just lies there. I listen to the droplets hit the tent and hope it won't leak.
The forest is quiet. The falls burble. I’m out boiling some water. The canoe, tent and Trangia are all clumped together as if we are guarding ourselves. The canoe is just above my right foot, hiding in the dense brush.
Time to Think:
Plan A, Enter a period of depression. I had failed. I should just turn around, haul myself up the embankment and wait for a train to take me back to Senneterre. I could drive home with my tail between my legs and what, oh what, would I tell the canoetripping.net forum? Maybe if I just didn't mention it at all, everyone would forget about it..
After cogitating briefly, I realized how utterly stupid this plan was. I was here in beautiful near North Quebec with a canoe and everything I needed for a trip. It was just plain idiotic. Mindless. Dumb. Foolish. Thick. Moronic. OK. Done with Plan A and negative talk.
A few months before I left for this trip, I was reading "River of Doubt" by Candice Millard. The subtitle is "Theodore Rooseveldt's Darkest Journey" which may explain why I stopped reading it as the death toll rose higher and higher. If you haven't read it, it would make good reading for northern climes in winter when there is little chance of starting a major expedition.
What did grab me about this book, and tales of other early explorers, is that they went where they had no idea of where they were going. Just an idea like, "I heard there is a tributary to the Amazon over there. Let's go see if we can find it." Or, "There must be a way to boat through the arctic, a northern passage as it were. Let's go find it." I found myself wishing I could be on a trip where I didn't know where I was going, just a compass and map (or maybe not a map) and some sense of what the geography was like. Maybe I was being offered this experience?
The rain has stopped and blue sky appeared.
Plan B: I suspected that all these rivers ran north into the Megiscane at some point. In theory, I could just keep going, find the Megiscane and get on with my trip, a la Theodore and Kermit but without the hundreds of support staff. Intriguing...
But, I had no map covering my current location. For the first time in more than 30 years I have cut off the parts of the map that I didn't need, in order to save weight. Note to self: do not do that again. Also, how would I know when I found the Megiscane? It's not like there are neon lights, or even rough wood signs. Large portions of the Megiscane River camouflage themselves as lakes. I could make this stab at a real exploration and if worse came to worse, I could push the SOS button on the SPOT and be rescued.
Uh, no. That is way too irresponsible. That is an abuse of the rescue system. Can't do that.
Plan C. There had been a bridge over the water, presumably with a road running over it. I just barely noted it as I whisked by in a small riverine rapid. Maybe it was a road. Maybe the road was still used. Maybe someone would help me get to Monet. Maybe someone fueled with alcohol would beat me up and rob me and leave me to crawl back into the woods.
I'd been sitting still for quite some time, next to the Trangia and the canoe, trying to decide what to do. A little brown bird suddenly landed on a gunwale and looked at me. I looked at the bird and we looked at each other in silence. The bird was so close I could see individual feathers. The bird then flapped just a couple of feet into an adler bush, but still looking at me. Then flitted over to another branch and then flew away. A curious bird. It made not a sound.
Plan D. I could retrace my route, all the way back up to the railroad, flag down a train and let it take me to Monet. Except I don't know which way Monet is, therefore, which side of the train to be on. I could not bear the idea of hauling the gear and the canoe back upstream and back up the nearly verticle railroad embankment.
Just for the sake of fun, I decided to try to figure out the slope of the railroad embankment. According to ChatGPT, the steepest angle permitted in railroad embankments in Canada is approximately 27 degrees. I took a look at diagrams of 26 degree angles, and it was steeper than that. I could not walk down it. Most of the time I had to carefully scoot because there were grapefruit sized rocks, soccer ball sized rocks and larger boulders, large downed branches, and gullies. Standing up without having a tree to prop me up was impossible. And this was the easy side. The other side of the embankment went almost straight down.
My best judgment here, something like the length of a fish, is that the slope was at 45 degrees. It was at least 45 degrees near the top and near the bottom it leveled out some, but that wording gives the impression it was level at all and it wasn't. It was always a contest to stay upright.
Just the thought of trying to do this was bringing me to tears, so I turned my focus back to Plan C.
I took down the tent and threw the bags into the boat. I forgot to take a photo of the tent before I took it down, but if you look closely, you can see the coffin shaped mat where I slept.
Having checked for gators, I slid into the water. At two to three feet deep, I couldn't step in without swamping the boat. We swam together, Dancer and I, up this little river. I viewed the tree crossing the entire river with a sinking feeling. It felt impossible—like every part of me was giving out. I felt completely worn out—rest no longer seemed to help.
The barrier. There is not enough room under on river-right (left in the photo) and the tree extends all the way across and up the other side.
But I had just been reading one of Michael Pitt's book in which he chortles about sneaking around unrunnable rapids. He claims that one of the finest pleasures in life is tricking a river out of the work it expects you to do on a portage.
With Michael as inspiration, I took the boat with me to the far river-left where the tippy top of the tree had landed. I squirmed my way onto the trunk so that I was sitting on it, with my full weight on the tree. Once I sat on the branch, it sagged under my weight (This had to be the only time I had been glad for the weight I gained when older.) I was able to pull and then push the boat over the trunk. Hurray. Michael was right. And I was inordinately pleased with myself.
I wish now I had taken more photos of this part of the trip, because it was quite beautiful and it would also document just how decrepit and delapidated the anticipated bridge was. It was concrete. From below, there were no visible railings. And lush bushes and forbs sprouted out of all the cracks. Worse yet, a tree some 7 feet tall appeared to be growing in the middle of it. It looked so awful and I was so tired, I almost decided not to hike up the very steep embankment which, after a brief level section, was almost straight up.
But I also didn't want to climb up the railway embankment either, so I tied off the boat and slowly scrambled my way to the top.
My goodness. It was a road and a wide one at that. The bridge was in less than peak condition, but it was a road. Maybe I would get lucky.
I still had to plan. What would I do if no one came today? There were some flat places near the road. I could set up the tent. What if no one came tomorrow? How many days would I give it here? What if someone came and didn't want to help? What would I do if the people who saw me were aggressive? Run? Hide?
My plan was to ask someone where Monet was and if it was walkable, I would walk there. If not, I could ask for a ride. I would not expect someone to load up my canoe and all gear. I would go to the pourvoirie in Monet and ask for help there and expect to pay someone.
I needed to get up at least a day pack of stuff from the canoe. What if I left for the canoe and someone came while I wasn't up there watching? I tried writing by scratching in the gravel that I needed help. But it was completely invisible to a vehicle.
If this didn't work, I could still get the train. But which way? Forward or back? What if.... One thing at a time, I said to myself. You don't need to have Plan D totally worked out when you were so far into Plan C. I scooted down to the canoe, packed up a few things and then crawled back up.
I got up to the road and settled in to wait. I walked to the bridge and up the other side a bit. I took some pictures. I looked at the butterflies and the flowers. Below are snaps of upstream and downstream with a bit of the deteriorated rails which were only a foot tall, if that. And also two flowers.
Time ticked by. It was getting late in the day. Would anyone come by?
oh Erica - you could also sum it all up with the headline:
"me and myself or the force of emotions"
I have the utmost respect for your achievement!
"me and myself or the force of emotions"
I have the utmost respect for your achievement!
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I don’t know my flowers very well, however did recognize the fireweed. The fireweed plant’s leaves make a great decaf tea. Some good tutorials on the interweb on how it is processed, like real tea leaves, that tastes like black tea, At one time in mankind’s dim past Fireweed Tea was a Russian staple before black tea was traded from the far east.
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The suspense is difficult to menage.
Hope you have a good lawyer to take care of the film rights...
Hope you have a good lawyer to take care of the film rights...
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