‘My canoe journey occupied eighteen days, and was rather arduous. The heat, against which there could never be the slightest protection, was terrible, sometimes rising as high as 110° in the shade, which was aggravated by the rocky and difficult character of many of our portages. These things were nothing to me some years ago, but it is different now. I cannot bear fatigue as I could when I came by the same route fifteen years ago; then it was physically a pleasure, now it is a labour.’
The bishop had travelled viâ New York, Montreal and Matawa. ‘We alighted at the station,’ he writes, ‘and a mile ride on a very rough road brought us to the thriving young town. Fifteen years ago, with wife and two young children, I had found the reaching Matawa a difficult journey by canoe, and when I had reached it, it consisted of three houses; now its population is about five hundred, while the number of people passing through is very large. It has fine shops, many hotels, a broad street, and an English church and parsonage are being built for a very energetic resident clergyman. It is the seat of the lumber trade in the Upper Ottawa; hence its importance. But where are the Indians, who not long since were numerous here? This place knows them no more! I saw scarcely any; as a race they have passed away; many have died, for they cannot stand the diseases Europeans bring with them—measles, whooping-cough, diphtheria, make short work of them. Many, too, have gone to work on the railways, while the women have married French Canadians, and so the Indian becomes swallowed up by the advancing whites.
‘I travelled on by rail as far as the railroad went—forty miles from Matawa. The country is rocky and uninteresting, with a good spot for farming here and there. This railroad forms part of the Great Canadian Pacific, which is being carried forward with extraordinary rapidity, and will be accomplished years before it was expected to be, the part causing most difficulty being that north of Lake Superior. At Matawa I remained four days, the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Bliss, spending a Sunday there, which I much enjoyed. I preached both morning and evening, and in the afternoon gave an address to the children. I never spend an idle Sunday. I should hope no one ever does; but a Sunday never passes without my saying something for the Master in a public manner. I feel that I must work; the truth comes home to me more and more forcibly every day that “the time is short,” that it behoves us to work while it is called to-day.
‘On Tuesday, August 1, I had done with railways and telegrams, almost with letters, and was once more in my birch-bark canoe up the Ottawa. There lies the bedding, tied up in an oil-cloth to prevent its getting wet; there the provisions, and the kettles and frying-pan, and tent and paddles; and here are my companions—four Temiscamingue Indians, fine strong fellows, who with alacrity place the canoe in the water, and then everything in it in a very orderly manner; then one of them with a respectful touch of his cap says, “Ashi nen he posetonau kekinow” (“Already we have embarked everything”). I step into the canoe; a nice seat has been prepared for me, and we are off. The sound of the paddles is familiar; I could almost forget that I had not heard it for two years. Through the whole course of our journey I did not see a dozen farms. But what is this I see? Logs, logs, logs; tens, hundreds, thousands, all formed into a raft, on their way to build houses, churches, palaces, cottages, in the civilised world. And here we are at the foot of a great rapid; we are obliged to get out of our canoe, which, with all the baggage, has to be carried over a long portage. But there comes a curious-looking structure, square in shape, and on it a couple of small houses and four men. It is composed of a large number of squared logs formed into a small raft called a “crib”; the men look resolute and determined, and handle immense oars called sweeps. They come on towards the rapid, slowly at first, then the speed increases, and down they go, covered with water, down, down, down, until quieter waters are reached. A few more strokes of the oar send it out into mid-stream, where it will wait until all the other cribs have descended, when they will be again joined together, and so go on until the next rapid is reached. As we sit, crib after crib descends without accident; but it is dangerous work, and the Ottawa frequently secures its victims.
CANADIAN TIMBER
‘We have a good deal of portaging, and very hot it is. On this portage there is an abundance of blueberries; we gather and eat them, and capitally they quench our thirst, almost making us forget the fiery sun above us. At the head of the Long Sault our difficulties are over, we are on the placid waters of the great Lake Temiscamingue. Some time after it has become quite dark, one of my companions exclaims, “Ma!” (“Listen”) “kagat iskota chemau” (“truly the fire-boat”—the steamer); and in the distance I hear the puffing of the giant, who has now invaded these hitherto quiet waters. At midnight we put up our tent and seek repose; we set off again early, and about four P.M. reach Temiscamingue.
‘Five days beyond Temiscamingue we found ourselves on the broad waters of the Abbitibbe Lake, a grand expanse, dotted with islands, which make it in places very picturesque. And there stands the Hudson’s Bay Company establishment, where I am sure of a welcome.’