Chapter X: Temiscuata

IN 1894 WILL RECEIVED HIS DEGREE IN CIVIL ENGINEERING. His health, however, was still below par and Dr Runyon suggested to Mother and Father that he spend the summer in the pure air of Canada. At that time Father had a salesman who traveled in New England and Nova Scotia, and this salesman recommended a hotel on the shore of Lake Temiscuata in the eastern province of Quebec, not far from the corner of Maine. It was decided that I should go along to keep Will from getting homesick. We set off for a tiny hamlet, the name of which I've forgotten, situated on a bluff overlooking the lake. A more beautiful spot could not be found, and the air could not have been cleaner.

Lake Temiscuata was 15 miles long and a mile or so wide at most points. At its northern end it flowed into a short river that soon emptied into the St Lawrence at a place called River-de-Loup. The food at the hotel was excellent but the beds were horrible. Besides spotty fishing, there was not much else to do. It was while we were at Temiscuata that I taught myself Greek.

The strawberry season was just ending in South Orange, but we followed it north to the diners all the way to the lake. Wild strawberries were at their peak when we reached Temiscuata and we enjoyed them all that summer. They remain the best I've tasted.

After we had been at the lake for three long weeks we decided to hire a French Canadian guide to take us upriver. The guide furnished us camping equipment and two canoes, and we all lived together in a tent for two weeks. Neither Will nor I had ever been in a canoe, but by the time we paddled that first mile without upset we were fair enough at it.

The guide took us to the third in a chain of lakes formed by the rivers. The trip required a portage for part of the distance because of the rapids—fairly rough at first, shorter and less angry the farther we went. We camped on the shore of the third lake by the side of a little brook, and as soon as we had our tent pitched, we cut a lot of hemlock boughs for our beds. Our guide proved to be a good cook on an open fire and we lived royally off the land. Our camp was 30 miles from the nearest habitation and there was not another soul there with us. At least not human. At night we fell asleep to the cry of the loons from the lake.

In the morning deer and wildcat tracks were plentiful but we never saw any bear. I decided to get up at daybreak and paddle down to the mouth of another nearby brook. I beached my canoe upstream, walked down to the brook and placed three different flies on my leader. I have never seen such a commotion as when I first dropped those flies. There must have been 50 fish competing for a bite. On that first cast alone I landed two nice trout and a perch. After 30 minutes I'd caught enough for six meals.

The guide took us on a walk through the forest to still another lake. He suggested that I bring my 22 cal rifle and sure enough, about five minutes from camp we flushed a covey of partridges. They flew into a tall tree, and the guide told me to shoot the lowest bird first, then the next above it, until I had as many as I wanted.

"The birds won't fly unless you shoot one high up and it flutters down through the covey."

"You're mad." Three birds later, low to high, we had our meal and I left the rest in the tree for someone else.

The guide said that Will and I were sufficiently skilled to shoot the rapids by ourselves if we would just follow him away from the most dangerous rocks. The rapids just below our lake were easy enough and we grew confident in our abilities. The next ones were rougher and bigger because they had water from two lakes plus the interflowing brooks. We grew less confident. The lower rapids were rough and difficult and it was there we stuck to our guide like the proverbial glue. I'm not quite sure how two such inexperienced canoeists came through it all safely.

The trip across Temiscuata was thankfully without incident, and the whole camping trip remains a wonderfully instructive and exhilarating memory. It was with real regret that we said goodbye to our guide, though I can't seem to recall his name.

We stayed at Lake Temiscuata until August. When our time was up, we declared it a rewarding summer, both physically and mentally. We were ready to leave the lake, but I for one hoped that the time would come when I could see it again.

Opportunity for the fulfillment of that wish knocked at the door but I did not let it in. About 25 years ago, almost 60 years after that idyllic summer, when Helen and Ann and I returned to Quebec, we passed within five miles of it. At a highway intersection I saw a sign post with an arrow pointing east and on the arrow was printed a name: LAKE TEMISCUATA. I knew that we could not follow that sign and still get to the Hotel Fontenac before dark. I remembered well the joys and fears of that unknown wilderness, so I said nothing to Helen and we drove on. I knew the sign had meant nothing to her.


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