Everyone was still quite wiped out from the previous two days on the river, and the pressures of our busy lives still reverberated through various members of our group. Looking at the rosy cheeks and bags beneath our eyes, we opted for another lazy morning on White’s Brook Island, taking our time to enjoy breakfast, slowly breaking camp, and humping gear down to our canoes at the water’s edge. It was about 11:00 AM before we were all loaded up and had pushed the last canoe off from the rocky shoreline.
We were just getting situated and had pointed our bows downriver, when a jet boat motored around the corner from upstream, and roared past us without either a wave of acknowledgment, nor a cut in boat speed – effectively waking everyone as they went by – including the young girls struggling to stow the barrels of chips and junk food they had stashed for the day.
Inconsiderate pricks!
We cursed them off to make ourselves feel better about it all and settled into the business of paddling downriver to the rapids that waited for us, just upstream of Million Dollar Pool, where the Patapedia joins the Restigouche.
Having recovered from the momentary upset, Philip took a moment to brief us in on the situation that waited for us at the bottom of the pool, explained that wealthy American’s quite often pay tens of thousands of dollars to fish the waters we were about to enter shortly, and that there is often a little tension between the fishermen and canoeists.
Once we had made it through the rapids we were approaching, we were to take care to look for the Guides, to take their lead on which side of the river to pass them on.
The Guides have every reason to be suspicious. Years back, nets were strung across the river, blocking the salmon from reaching their spawning grounds. The salmon stocks collapsed until the Fisheries Act granted clubs the right to purchase privately held fishing and hunting rights.
Unlike the Queen’s Chain in New Zealand, which grants every resident the right to access all fresh and saltwater waterways, the Canadian tradition of British Common Law allows for exclusive ownership of the Restigouche River and the salmon stock within it.
While public navigation is begrudgingly allowed, the fishing there is privately owned and jealously guarded, either by those few that are fortunate enough to live there, or wealthy enough to have staked a formal claim.
Of course, while we all enjoyed Philip’s wonderful accounts of the great fishing that happens there, it was difficult to get too excited about all the great fishing when, as non-residents, we would either have to drop a thousand bucks on a guided tour of the river, or risk being heavily fined if we ever tried to fish there ourselves.
 |
| Wealthy men in floppy hats |
Michelle’s perspective of it all was, “Isn’t is wonderful. I just love the rich old men with their floppy hats. Cane chairs and cigars, being punted up and down the river, like the old days.”
Of course, I rolled my eyes, scoffed a bit (as the jealousy settled in), and contented myself with the spectacular beauty that surrounded us, around every bend in the river.
On the other hand, Charlotte was just happy to let her fingers drag in the warm, crystal clear waters as we silently guided our flotilla through the calm waters of Million Dollar Pool.
In retrospect, she had the best experience of the river that day. She is still able to just see things for what they are and doesn’t get bogged down with all the politics of it all.
Watching her blissfully enjoying herself made me acutely aware of the jaded haze I see things through these days. Perhaps there is more happiness in growing down than growing up?
* * * * *
Arriving at a place called Indian Lodge, I remembered that the Restigouche is also known as the Listuguj, which is the name shared by the band of local Mi’kmaq who reside there – a name long forgotten by the wealthy white men who now own it all. (Don't worry, the chip on my shoulder never managed to upset the canoe).
The Mi'kmaq Creation story tells of the formation of Mi'gma'gi, and the creation of its seven districts. Listuguj is located in Gespe'gewa'gi ('The Last Land'), the seventh and largest district of Mi'gma'gi.
Gespe'gewa'gi has been Mi'kmaq and Listugujewaq traditional territory since time immemorial and includes what is now known as the Gaspé Peninsula, parts of mainland Québec and Maine, as well as northeastern New Brunswick. (I guess no one bothered to mention all that to the men in floppy hats).
Passing 'Indian Lodge', we drove our paddles into the water and shot the various rapids that surged around the man-made bend in the river. Hedging our bets on this one, we opted for the gentle but convoluted route, while the teenagers took their chances with the fast run, and somehow, managed to end up in the water, giggling.
Safely on the other side, we all stopped on the gravel slew for a swim in the warm river current, and some potato chips. Charlotte was enjoying her increasing confidence in the water, and the swim was just what we needed to rinse ourselves off, under the heat of the mid-afternoon sun. Even the salmon were resting on the riverbed, sheltering from the unseasonably warm Summer temperatures.
About an hour after our lunch break we stopped again to gather up some firewood for our final campfire, planned for later that evening. Climbing back into the canoes, Charlotte finally decided to take a break, having practically been paddling all the way from Kedgwick under the expert tutelage of her aunty Deb.
Red-faced and a little grumpy, she climbed into our canoe, wrapped herself up in our Turkish towels, and promptly drifted off into the kind of deep sleep you only get when you are exhausted. All we could see of her for the next two hours was her feet, sticking out from beneath her covers.
Nearing the end of our run for the final day, we had just run another riffle and were sitting quietly, watching the eagles circling overhead, when Deb said, “They are wonderful, aren’t they? But I think I’d rather go check out this wild animal downstream.” And with that, she paddled off.
Looking on to where she was headed, we were taken back a little by the sight of a big, black moose, descending the Quebec side of the river, wading through the crystal water as if it weren’t there, and climbing back up again on the New Brunswick side. He was only young from the looks of him but huge! Bigger than a draught horse.
We remained completely silent as we strained our eyes as we drifted past the spot in the river where he had crossed, hoping to catch another glimpse of him pushing through the riverside forest, but there was no sign of him at all. Gone, like an apparition.
An interprovincial cervid - a spruce moose, if you will!
* * * * *
At last, we drifted past Gilmore’s Campsite which was eerily vacant and headed for the campground that was situated just below the pullout point at the River Warden’s shack. We had planned for the outfitter to come collect us there mid-morning the following day, so decided to camp at the campsite nearby.
Unfortunately, we rounded the corner to spot the jet boat, that had waked us earlier that morning, moored right outside the jetty we were aiming for with its occupants hooting and hollering and drinking beer off in the distance.
“Looks pretty buggy,” said Deb, frowning at Philip suggestively.
“I hate the bugs!” Lucy groaned from beneath her sunhat.
“Here looks good,” said Philip, poling his way towards the Warden’s Hut – and so that is where we camped instead.
Arriving at the River Warden’s jetty, Deb prepared supper while we ferried all the gear up the steep access road to the picnic spot overlooking the river. We had to be a little selective of our camping spots because of the ground bees and the moose trails that limited our options somewhat, but Ron the River Warden and his friendly golden retriever Hayley soon made us feel right at home.
Having paddling 16 km downstream, it was only natural that
the kids were a little tired and crabby from the long, hot day on the river,
but Ron soon lightened the mood by presenting the girls with gifts of pendants
he had crafted from river rocks he had found along the riverbed.
* * * * *
Being the thinking kid that Charlotte is and appreciating
the kindness of the relative stranger who had welcomed us onto his property,
she felt like she owed him a gift in kind to say thank you. She convinced me to
take her back down to the river so she could find some new rocks that he might
be able to use as replacements – of course, he managed to turn those into
pendants while we camped outside his shack, and made a gift of those as well.
Such a lovely memento to mark the end of our trip and help
us remember our fabulous trip down the beautiful Restigouche river.
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