The Game Fish, of the Northern States and British Provinces / With an account of the salmon and sea-trout fishing of Canada and New Brunswick, together with simple directions for tying artificial flies, etc., etc.

by Robert Barnwell Roosevelt

CHAPTER IV.
A TRIP TO THE LA VAL.

A beautiful breeze was blowing down between the grand old hills of the majestic Saguenay on that first day of August when Walton[8] and myself started from L’Anse à l’Eau in one of the oddly-shaped pilot-boats of the St. Lawrence, for a visit to the Bon Homme la Val. The Bon Homme la Val, a beautiful and romantic stream that falls into the St. Lawrence about sixty miles below the Saguenay, tradition asserts was named by the pious Canadians in the early days of the country after a beloved father confessor. But time and the English, equally utilitarian, have contracted it into simply La Val, and the origin of the name, together with the piety that suggested it, is almost forgotten by the present generation. The sun was shining brilliantly, and the strong northwest wind curled the waves of the ancient river, and crested them with foam; the dark waters surged in their falling tide; the stunted trees shivered in the blast; while the granite hills were as immovable as they had been mid storm and calm for many thousand years; but the pretty little village was all astir with our departure.

It is a fanciful place, with the white houses perched in a nook between the whiter rocks, while the graceful roofs and white-washed walls shining in the sunlight, produces a picturesque effect. The few English families residing there, and their many friends on visit to them, made an agreeable society, drawn closer together by its seclusion from the world at large; and bright eyes looked brighter when there were none others by.

The world of L’Anse à l’Eau was collected on the wharf to witness our departure—the Canadians because they had no better employment, the English that they might bid us adieu. Our pilot-boat, called by the Canadians chaloupe, an open boat some five-and-twenty feet long by seven wide, was crammed full of our numerous traps, plunder or baggage, as it would be variously styled in different parts of our land of freedom. The fishing rods, and one gun, devoted to the destruction of bears for lack of smaller game, were carefully stowed; small barrels, at present filled with meat, but destined to return filled with fish, lay side by side with baskets full of more delicate provender; tents, bedding and innumerable other articles occupied every inch of room. We were experienced in woodsman life, and had no idea of suffering the want of luxuries that could be easily carried with us, and would never trouble us on our return, unless they did it in spite of our teeth. There were preserved soups, meats and fruits, sauces of many kinds, tea and coffee, the latter ground and in bottles of essence; there were brown, white and maple sugars, concentrated milk, flour, indian and oatmeal, barley, rice and potatoes; liquors of many kinds, and other things too numerous to mention. For our protection from the weather, we had two tents and waterproof cloth sufficient for a make-shift, two indian-rubber blankets apiece, one coated on the side the other in the middle, waterproof suits, plenty of blankets, flannels, and warm clothes; and such other things as a gentleman ordinarily carries on a journey. As a defence against the mosquitoes, black flies, sand flies, and other like torments of Satan’s invention, there were veils, the oil of tar, and a mixture of glycerine, turpentine and spearmint. Above our treasures were carefully stowed our two canoes, bottom upmost. In a heavy sea they cannot be towed, as they are apt to fill and tear to pieces.

Few persons know how beautiful and delicate a canoe is. It is manufactured only by the Indian; in that the white man has never equalled him. The best is made from a piece of white birch bark, stripped from the tree in springtime, damped, and after being cut away to the requisite extent, molded into the proper shape. The inside is covered with gum, and a thinner piece of bark fitted upon it, so that though the outer bark be torn, it still does not leak. Over this are passed thin strips of red cedar, lengthwise of the canoe, and crossing them at every inch are ribs of the same wood. The gunwale is formed of a stout stick of hickory or ash, laced to the sides, and four strong but slender thwarts bind the whole firmly together, and serve for seats or supports. Inferior articles are made of but one thickness and of poorer bark. The shape differs according as they are manufactured by the Mountaineers or Micmacs, the two tribes of this region, the former building a long, narrow and graceful boat, easily capsized even for a canoe, and well suited for travel in smooth water; while the latter build a broader and flatter boat, drawing little water and better suited for shoals and rapids. They are mostly manufactured on the south side of the St. Lawrence, birch-trees of the requisite size having almost disappeared from the north shore. The bark is composed of innumerable layers, and is the only known substance that would stand the rough contact with rocks that canoes experience. A volume could be written on the wondrous qualities of birch bark, the woodsman’s invaluable treasure; to him it is a boat, a tent, a table, a plate, a cup, a basket, a pail, a basin, a frying-pan, a tea-kettle, a candle, a flambeau, a cooking oven, writing paper, kindling wood, and almost all the other conveniences or necessaries of life.

The chaloupe being loaded, a long farewell shouted loudly that our spirits might not fail, and we turned our backs on L’Anse à l’Eau, the pretty bay at the waterside. The jib was set, and the grande voile, or foresail, together with the tapecu, or jigger, while the mainsail, called by the Canadians mizzin—for we were a three-masted schooner—was brailed up, not only to give us more room, but because the open boat was then under all the sail she could stagger to. The French are a wonderful people; strange and incomprehensible are the sailing vessels they have produced; but in Canada, aided by the antiquated notions of the English, they surpass themselves and manage to combine in their pilot-boats all the defects of which either system is capable. While the rest of the world has discovered that the more sails a small boat carries the slower she will go, they have carefully cut up what should have been one sail into four; and whereas a pilot-boat is mainly wanted in rough weather, and should be capable of living in any sea, they have built them open, and any heavy wave breaking aboard would swamp them in an instant.

But of all wonderful productions of the human mind the jigger excels; a mast is stepped alongside the stern-post, with a little spritsail hoisted on it; a stationary boom, or out-rigged, is fastened in the stern and projects aft into the water; in the end of this boom an augur hole is bored, through which is rove the sheet to the jigger, and the sail trimmed down or eased off. By this ingenious arrangement all possible disadvantages are combined without one conceivable advantage. However, not to condemn unreasonably, there are conveniences in this singular rig. The bowsprit can be taken out and used to shove off from rocks or a lee shore, and as these vessels are never known to go to windward, that is important; the sprit of the jigger can be used to boom out the mainsail when going wing and wing; any passenger, finding a sail incommodes him, can reach up and wrap it round the mast, out of his way; and in fact, if he were to pull it down and put it in his pocket, no one would miss it; and finally, a Kentuckian might find the mainmast useful, with a little whittling, as a toothpick. It is also rather perplexing that the Canadians should call the foresail the grande voile, which is the proper name for the mainsail, and then call the mainsail the mizzin, in pronouncing which they endeavor to cheat the last syllable of its vowel; whereas, the jigger, if any, is entitled to be called the mizzen. Instead of having a cabin, like Christians, they have amidships, for it is a keel boat, what they call a boîte; and sure enough it is a box, as long as the width of the boat, some seven feet, about two and a half feet deep at the lowest part, and rounding to the shape of the bottom, and three and a half feet wide. Into that they crawl, and two men and a boy have been known to sleep comfortably.

Such was the vessel that was destined to bear us sixty miles down the broad St. Lawrence, and was soon tearing along under the fierce wind that crested every wave with foam. Fortunately, our course lay along the weather shore, for our open cockle-shell would not have lived a minute exposed to the full sweep of the blast and the sea it must have raised on the other side of the river, or even a few miles from shore. Once in a while, a little dash of spray would come hissing on board, or fling itself into our faces; but as the wind was free, we could carry on sail as long as she could keep above the waves, or until she carried the masts out of her. Even that ungainly vessel, driving on in the seething waters, carrying the canoes on her deck, and with her sails straining in the blast, must have been more than picturesque.

On we tore, skirting the dreary, inhospitable coast past the village of Tadousac, past the Moulinbaud, the Escomain, a river once famous for its salmon, but no longer so; past the Patte de Lièvre, a rock of the shape of the hare’s foot, where many years ago the sea gave up its dead, and a cross now stands to mark the grave of the lost nameless one; and the last puffs of the wearied blast urged us quietly into the outlet of Sault de Cochon. At the mouth of this river there is a steep fall, down which once a hog hastily descended much against her will; in her death covering herself with immortality giving her name to the torrent that destroyed her.