Cap de la Madeleine, Quebec September 12, 1978
We made a quick overnight stop in Montreal to visit friends, remarkable mostly because Dusty first rolled in a dead fish, so was banished to the car, and the next morning vomited up something he’d eaten (the dead fish?), presumably the day before. We beat a hasty retreat from the city, and headed north and east through Joliette. Fortunately we came across a stream just before there that was deep enough for me to give Dusty a bath with liberal amounts of dish soap. Even more fortunately he was happy enough to be bathed, or maybe, feeling sickly, just didn't have the energy to protest. So at least he smelled better. But he refused to eat anything, and looked at me pathetically as we continued our journey east towards Quebec City.
We traveled on through a peaceful rural landscape. Fields of hay, uncut and now dry, their seed heads nodding in the breeze, or cut with new green growth, perhaps a promise of another late crop.
Apple orchards and road stands selling baskets and bushels of bright red apples. So RED!
A particularly colourful ‘artisanat’ stand selling wood carvings – a handsome rocking chair and other knick-knacks. A series of iconic ‘Canadiana’ paintings – an apple, an ear of corn, a Hudson’s Bay blanket – advertised blanket for sale. Another sign, featuring a cabin in a snow-bound maple forest promised ‘SIROP DERABLE’ – real Canadian maple syrup. The artisanat business also sold hides of various animals, and hand-knitted socks – SOCKS! I stopped for a photo, but managed to resist buying a rocking chair, or hide, or blanket. Maybe I should have bought socks...
Our relaxing rural drive was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a wailing siren. As I was the only car on the road, it quickly became apparent that it was me that was being pulled by the local gendarmes – the ‘Quebec Surete’. There didn’t appear to be any reason for my being stopped – I was not speeding, hadn’t made any illegal turns, and as far as I knew, the car, and all of its signals, were in good working order. Perhaps these guys had nothing better to do. Or felt that a young woman, apparently traveling alone, in a car with an out-of-province licence plate, was suspicious enough to warrant further investigation.
I’ve never been afraid of the police, or felt threatened when stopped at a road block. But this was different. These guys looked more like thugs than ‘peace officers’ – they were downright scary dudes. Interestingly, as the two of them approached the car, Dusty started snarling and growling. Evidently he didn’t care for their vibes either. I’d rolled my window down in anticipation of having a chat with the cops. Dusty climbed over my lap, and shoved his snarling snout out the window, baring his teeth and barking in a clearly aggressive ‘I just might bite you’ kind of way. I was somewhat anxious about what he might do as I had no idea of his previous experiences or behaviour – did he have a history of aggression? Is that why he was in the pound?
I asked the pair of uniforms to back off a little, explaining, in my halting French (the grade school and university French I’d taken, almost all of it being written word, and anyway Parisian French, not Quebecois, didn’t help me at all), that I’d only just gotten the dog, so didn’t know it well and was uncertain what it might do. Amazingly, rather than becoming belligerent, as might have happened, they did back off. But they weren’t going to just let me go on my way. They wanted to see my ‘registration papers’, and weren’t satisfied by the insurance document I gave them, which in B.C. is also the ‘registration’. As they couldn’t read English that wasn’t clear to them, so they kept insisting on seeing the ‘registration papers’ (fortunately the words in French are almost the same as in English, so I knew what they wanted – I just didn’t have it, and I was having difficulty explaining, in French, why not). After almost an hour of fruitless discussion about ‘papiers de registration’, they begrudgingly let me go.
It took several hours for me – and Dusty – to calm down. We’d both been rattled by the threatening, indeed menacing, vibes of the two cops. In retrospect it was surprising how easily the situation was resolved. They didn’t insist on my getting out of the vehicle, or searching it, and me, or asking/telling me to follow them to their headquarters. I don’t know how I might have reacted to any of those orders. Certainly with fear – would I have been able to maintain my calm?
The ‘silver lining’ to this little episode, if there was one, was that I felt I could count on Dusty to protect me from anyone who seemed threatening. When I’d gotten him I was thinking more of a warm fuzzy friend to share the road with, someone to ‘talk to’. But given how remote and desolate many of my camping spots were, and the likelihood that the only other people who might frequent them might be vagrants of one sort or another, it seemed that Dusty’s added role as a reliable canine protector was an added bonus.
Towards nightfall we came to a private campground in the middle of an old farm – fields and apple orchard. It was officially closed, so there was no one there and no one looking for payment. But there was running water, which, as it happened, we needed. There was also a little logging operation at the edge of one of the fields, with stockpiles of logs and ample ‘free’ firewood. In short, it was perfect. And the sun was, finally, shining.
I started setting up camp which Dusty cased the joint out, checking for dangers, then sat by the car, acting as a sentry, keeping a keen eye on both me and the landscape. He was taking his job seriously. And I appreciated it.
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