La Verendrye Provincial Wildlife Reserve, Quebec September 7, 1978
From Esker Lakes I decide to head east instead of south, and just like that, I’m in Quebec, on may way to Rouyn-Noranda and val-d’Or. Quebec has a different look and feel from Ontario. Perhaps it’s just that I’m in Northern Quebec which, like Northern Ontario, is mostly mining towns. But the place looks poorer even than Northern Ontario, rougher and less finished, less cared for. Bleak unfinished houses set in equally bleak landscapes - I feel depressed just looking at them, can't imagine living in them. Or living here at all. But this is another slice, another glimpse of the reality of life in my great nation, Canada.
The roads here are in worse condition than anywhere else I’ve been so far – lumpy, rippled and patched, sometimes falling off (literally) abruptly and without warning into pot-holed gravel tracks. Road shoulders are narrow and soft, so not good for stopping, which is a problem as there are so many big and small trucks on the road. The big trucks are hauling food and general merchandise; the smaller ones, camper-type pick-ups, are carrying hunters and fishermen to their favourite hang-outs. I see the trucks, big and small, racing up behind me in my rear-view mirror. They come right up close, breathing down my neck, tasting my exhaust fumes. I can see and feel their impatience. When finally I find a safe place to pull over they whiz by with nary a wave – whoosh, whoooooooooosh! So it’s neither a pleasant nor relaxing drive.
The first town I come to is Noranda/Rouyn – a mining town, almost completely enveloped in a thick haze that obscures the light, robbing whatever colours there are of their richness. Everything looks browned-out, almost like a sepia photo, but a bad one. And such a mish-mash of houses, industrial buildings, stores, parking lots. No separation between residential and business/industrial areas. It’s interesting, but unkempt looking. There are lots of people in the town – walking, shopping, talking to one another in more animated ways than English Canadians do, with more dramatic facial expressions and hand and arm gestures. They talk not just with their voices, but with their whole body. So that, at least, is a more colourful feature of this otherwise drab town.
The mine itself is on the outskirts. In its shadow sits a tidy block of white and yellow miners’ houses, each with picket fence, flower garden, and a line full of laundry hung out back. Other houses are scattered along the highway, some of stone, some mobile homes on concrete blocks, some no more than tar-paper shacks. But oh the colours! Orange doors and purple window sashes – gaudy but gay. A little joie de vivre in an otherwise somewhat bleak landscape.
I carry on past more roadside mines, logging operations, rock quarries. This is certainly not the most 'scenic' route. Interestingly, there is a line of wooden hydro poles running the entire length of the road, right in the middle of it. And so many signs! Two where one would be plenty. Mileage signs in red! And three or four stop-sign warning signs before you finally reach the actual stop-sign. I wonder why people here need so much warning... speeding? distracted?
On the north side of the road, where the late evening sun is now making silver ribbons of the birches, and touching all the reds, whites, browns and greens with hints of gold. I spy a grassy knoll with a barbeque and a few picnic tables on top. I drive up a dirt track and come upon a little jewel of a lake – reed bordered, with an old rickety walk-way extending about 20 feet out into the lake. The sun is shining, there’s no one here, and not too many bugs to bug me. A great place to practice my flute for an hour or so.
I’m on my way to 'La Verendrye’, a huge provincial wildlife reserve just a few miles down the road. There’s a little cluster of white board buildings at the park gate. According to the park official there I must select a site before I enter the park. He informs me that some sites have electricity, but I’ve got no use for that. Well, he says, there are ‘rustic’ sites with no electricity and no running water. Those sound perfect to me, and I ask him which site he might recommend if I want to do a little hiking. “Hiking?” he asks. “Hiking?” Like it’s a completely foreign concept. “Yes! I like to walk,” I say. “Oh, well, you see this is more of a reserve for hunters and fishermen, not for hikers.” “Okay, well which area of the park is not too far away and not too crowded?” “Ottawa River’” he responds. (Note: as it turns out, this is not the ‘Ottawa River’ but the Riviere Outaouais.)
I pay the $2 for my camping permit and head into the park. It’s pretty densely forested – the usual conifer and birch forests I’ve been seeing for so long. Some pretty ferns by side of the road – all brown, orange and red now. But wait – what’s this? Logging on both sides of the road – a huge swath of stumps, liberally punctuated with massive slash piles (Quebec logging is just as wasteful as BC logging). So those trucks that have been whizzing by me are likely from here!
Finally I come to a little lake, but it’s in an old logged over area where the water-table has risen. There are stumps everywhere, logs strewn high onto the rocky shore, criss-crossing one another. But somehow even this, the still water reflecting the work of beaver-men, is transformed into something surprisingly beautiful in a sad and desolate sort of way.
The access to ‘Ottawa River’ is a very rough, rocky track. It tests the limits of my little car’s off-roading capability. But it’s not long before it opens into a dirt field where a few picnic tables and garbage cans have been strewn haphazardly about. Several tracks lead off from the field. I choose one, and it comes out at the river. Several camper trucks are parked at intervals along the bank of the river. There are no formal spots, no water stands, no outhouses, no amenities of any sort. I head back to the field and try a track that looks more promising. It also leads to the river, but to a spot where there are fewer campers, and several places right beside the river where I can pitch my tent. I choose a spot where someone has left a nice pile of firewood, and set up camp.
My fire is a roaring success, thanks to the gift of free, dry firewood. I sit up late enjoying the warmth and the glow of the fire, and listening to the sounds of loons and wolves, so beautiful and so haunting. They are calling to one another, establishing territory, attracting a mate, or just calling to or howling at the moon, which tonight is shining brightly through the trees. It’s almost midnight before I say goodnight to the moon and the stars, and roll myself into my sleeping bag for one of the soundest sleeps I’ve had yet.
Note: As it turns out, Quebec allows logging and mining in its ‘wildlife reserves’. The main activities in the park are hunting and fishing. For more information about the park try: https://www.sepaq.com/rf/lvy/index.dot?language_id=1
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