The Hands of Nicolas Gatineau

The Gatineau River runs down from the Baskatong Reservoir and into the Ottawa, just down stream from where Canada’s Parliament sits high above on its rocky headland. The river’s powerful flow is yoked by a series of hydro-electric dams and the river struggles against each of these barriers. In the hot summer months, the river is enjoyed by the people who live along its shores. Motorboats zip up and down its length, a few people paddle canoes and kayaks in the stiller sections, which are closer to the shore. Near the river’s calm recesses people picnic on the banks and swimmers teeter on river’s rocky bottom to glide into its dark cool waters.

In 1627 this same river is referred to as, “The River that Stops One’s Journey. It is a wide fast running river and is difficult to navigate by canoe and only the most intrepid fur traders use the river to transport their goods. It is a good river to escape enemies – since few would be foolish enough to follow your retreat as you struggle up steep rocky portages: maneuvering your canoe, raised above sweating shoulders, between tall trees and low branches. Yet one man has become almost famous for using the river as his personal highway. Using it to bring furs, gathered from a long and prolific trapline, down to the market in Montreal. At 62, Nicolas Gatineau is not your average fur trader. He is well educated and has worked for the Government in various clerical positions. His business connections and his important status in the region has made him notable.

Nicolas is undertaking his sixth portage since he set out on the river. He maneuvers his canoe around tree trunks, under low branches, and through clumps of all weeds. The usual path seems to have grown over and the portage is hard. In the shade the mosquitos are clouding around his hands and face, in sunny patches his sweat makes the canoe’s gunwales slippery. But finally, the path evens out and the trees open into a small meadow.

Setting the canoe down, Nichols stretches out his back. He sits don in the tall grass with his back against the body of the canoe. He takes out his clay pipe, and from a leather pouch, a pinch of tobacco and his flint stone. As he smokes, he watches the white butterflies dancing over the wildflowers of the field. After this short rest Nicholas once more lifts the canoe to his shoulders and crosses the field to start the trek back down to the river. September rain and wet leaves make the path slick. Nicholas swears under his breath as he chops at tree roots to cut better footings, balancing the heavy canoe the entire time. At one point he slips down, nearly to the water’s edge, but comes to rest against a slender maple tree. Here he once again takes out his clay pipe. He looks down to the water far below and to the rocks just below the surface and he smiles to himself as a solution comes to him.

Less than an hour later he has brought up several medium sized rocks and as started building a rudimentary stair up the steepest part of the slope. His muddied coat hangs on the but of his knife, which is stuck solidly into a nearby tree. His linen shirt is ringed with sweat, but Nicolas stills works steady. He uses his large leather satchel to help his carry the rocks form the water. He wades deeper to the river feeling with his feet, through his moose skin moccasins, for just the right sized rock.

The day’s shadows grow longer. The water darkens.

One more rock, Nicholas says to himself – then another smoke – or perhaps even a nip from the battered silver flask in his coat. His feet carefully follow the shapes of the smaller round stones on the river’s bottom until they find out a larger stone. Perhaps to large. Nicolas’ beard is dipped into the river as he reaches for the stone. Using all his strength and the water’s buoyancy he slips the stone into the leather bag strapped across his chest. As he rises the bag his left foot slips on stones worn smooth from the river. He falls backwards, the stone in its bag swings around and pulls the strap of the satchel up over an arm and down around Nicolas’s neck. This makeshift anchor drags the man down to the riverbed. One hand frantically grabs at his belt for his knife, the other grabs at the noose around his neck. River weeds and sand swirl around Nicolas’ face– as he drowns.

September is a funny month in the Ottawa Valley – it can be cold and grey or – like an extension of August – hot and bright. Of course, school starts after labour day, so for kids the summer feels over. But the days are not so short that there aren’t enough sunlight-hours left after school do go fool around down by the river.

Late one afternoon, at the river, where the bank is quite steep, a group of kids can be glimpsed through the trees. They follow a winding path, skipping from stone to stone, holding on from tree to tree, down to a large maple. This tree’s large limbs salute over the water. Hanging from one of the branches is a thick multi-knotted rope – the source of great screaming and splashing kind of fun.

One girl quickly strips down to her panties and bra, the other two keep their t-shirts on, tugging them down over their hips. All boys but one, made a show of stripping down to their shorts. Little Lois, as he is affectionately called by his mates, is shy of his narrow chest and leaves his shirt on. He is the smartest of the bunch – everyone knows – and perhaps the only one that will go on after CEGEP to a university. What he doesn’t know is that the girls prefer him to the other loud and obnoxious boys. His face is growing handsome, his eyes are a warm mossy green and his smile is, well, amazing.

Half the boys have sung out over the river now, screaming at the top of their lungs and attempting to make a larger splash than the previous one in the hopes of spraying the three girls. The girls standing in a small patch of sun by the river’s bank, and are watching as the boys, one by one, scramble out the river back up the bank.

Lois climbs out onto the lowest branch and pulls back the rope all the way to trunk. He runs and leaps out into the sky, swinging far over the river. He lets go of the rope at the perfect moment and his white form seems to skip across the river like a smooth stone. He lands in a whoosh of surprising cold and bubbles.

He watches the surface of the water fall away as his momentum plunges him deep into the river. Still, he descends, pulled by his neck. He struggles against an invisible strap that drags him all the way to the bottom. A bottom of smooth stones, dancing weeds, forgotten bones and swirling sand.