Attack of the Flying Canoe
“Attack of the Flying Canoe”
Legends of flying canoes have a long and widespread history. The Kula of New Guinea, the Cowichan of British Columbia and the Passamaquoddy of Maine to mention a few, all have stories of characters singing and chanting to their canoes in order to sail through the air and amaze their friends. Not to be outdone, European settlers in North America combined such stories with religious parables. As usually related, eight lonely French Canadian loggers fly home for New Year’s Eve by striking a deal with the Devil (a painting of this story graces the label of a particularly good brand of strong Québec beer).
I am familiar with that Québec beer and with the legend of the flying canoe. However, I had no idea as Gary McGuffin and I headed into interior Labrador this past October that we would experience our own story of the Flying Canoe.
Gary and I were two of eight artists from the Wilderness River Expedition Art Foundation (WREAF) on an expedition sponsored by the Canadian Wildlife Federation. Our goal was to intercept the George River caribou herd on its migration as part of WREAF’s on-going Boreal Forest conservation and exhibition project with the Smithsonian’s Arctic Studies Center. Also on the crew was Tony Jenkinson, co-founder of the Tshikapisk Foundation (http://www.tshikapisk.ca/) with whom we wanted to help develop Innu based eco-tourism. Tshikapisk invited us to spend two weeks at their nascent eco-tourist camp on Lake Kamestastin (Mistastin on most maps) where for thousands of years the Innu have awaited the caribou.
The Boreal Forest is the largest terrestrial ecosystem on Earth and caribou are an important indicator species of its overall health. Lake Kamestastin, an ancient meteorite crater, provides enough shelter for an island of forest to thrive in the tundra, creating a wildlife magnet that draws the caribou during migration. The expedition was a great success with bears, wolves, golden eagles, gyr-falcons, profound landscape, a deep sense of history and thousands of caribou (details at http://www.wreaf.org/).
The fabled “Flying Canoe” waited until the very end to manifest itself. 50 mph winds gusting to 70 mph delayed our departure for two days. The second morning with the gale at full strength, we discovered that Tshikapisk’s aluminum canoe was missing. Happily, the wind was shrieking out of the west across 13 miles of lake and the eastern shore was only a mile away. While the others sipped coffee in the cabins, Gary suggested we try to recover the errant canoe. Tony promised us pancakes as a reward for a successful mission.
Walking was easy (I actually had to control my speed up a steep slope) but with the spray and waves, the buffeting of the wind and the tears in my eyes, glassing for the boat was not. We reached the outlet and the start of the Kamestastin River - no canoe. Pulling our hoods tight, we faced the wind for the return to camp. Despite the sharp sting of the driven snow pellets and sleet, the wildness of it all was exhilarating. We had only gone a few hundred yards when I heard Gary call out. There ahead of us was the shiny prow of a canoe amongst the rocks. Swamped and on boulders it was in danger of being wrecked, though it must have only just arrived as the damage was yet light.
With difficulty, we managed to empty the ton of water out of it and work it to shore. Reaching the stony beach, I was along the leeside gunwale as a strong gust hit and I heard an alarmed exclamation from Gary. Turning, the image of the flying canoe (rapidly on its way to 70 mph) barely had time to register in my brain before it crashed into me like a linebacker. I took the hit full in the face and chest with no chance to break my fall or protect the back of my head, as I slammed onto the stones and sand. After knocking me flat, to add insult to injury the canoe bounced off my head before continuing on its way inland.
I was stunned but the virtues of a thick skull were apparent, as I was generally fine. We secured the canoe above the spring ice line and returned to camp and our pancake reward; me with a new appreciation for how big a flying 17-foot canoe is.
Back home after cleaning gear and sorting photos, I was working on a painting of caribou crossing a ridge under the rising moon when it hit me; the Flying Canoe flattening me had been an appropriate finish for our adventure since in Innu, “Kamestastin” roughly means, “Place Where the Wind Knocks Things Down”.
Legends of flying canoes have a long and widespread history. The Kula of New Guinea, the Cowichan of British Columbia and the Passamaquoddy of Maine to mention a few, all have stories of characters singing and chanting to their canoes in order to sail through the air and amaze their friends. Not to be outdone, European settlers in North America combined such stories with religious parables. As usually related, eight lonely French Canadian loggers fly home for New Year’s Eve by striking a deal with the Devil (a painting of this story graces the label of a particularly good brand of strong Québec beer).
I am familiar with that Québec beer and with the legend of the flying canoe. However, I had no idea as Gary McGuffin and I headed into interior Labrador this past October that we would experience our own story of the Flying Canoe.
Gary and I were two of eight artists from the Wilderness River Expedition Art Foundation (WREAF) on an expedition sponsored by the Canadian Wildlife Federation. Our goal was to intercept the George River caribou herd on its migration as part of WREAF’s on-going Boreal Forest conservation and exhibition project with the Smithsonian’s Arctic Studies Center. Also on the crew was Tony Jenkinson, co-founder of the Tshikapisk Foundation (http://www.tshikapisk.ca/) with whom we wanted to help develop Innu based eco-tourism. Tshikapisk invited us to spend two weeks at their nascent eco-tourist camp on Lake Kamestastin (Mistastin on most maps) where for thousands of years the Innu have awaited the caribou.
The Boreal Forest is the largest terrestrial ecosystem on Earth and caribou are an important indicator species of its overall health. Lake Kamestastin, an ancient meteorite crater, provides enough shelter for an island of forest to thrive in the tundra, creating a wildlife magnet that draws the caribou during migration. The expedition was a great success with bears, wolves, golden eagles, gyr-falcons, profound landscape, a deep sense of history and thousands of caribou (details at http://www.wreaf.org/).
The fabled “Flying Canoe” waited until the very end to manifest itself. 50 mph winds gusting to 70 mph delayed our departure for two days. The second morning with the gale at full strength, we discovered that Tshikapisk’s aluminum canoe was missing. Happily, the wind was shrieking out of the west across 13 miles of lake and the eastern shore was only a mile away. While the others sipped coffee in the cabins, Gary suggested we try to recover the errant canoe. Tony promised us pancakes as a reward for a successful mission.
Walking was easy (I actually had to control my speed up a steep slope) but with the spray and waves, the buffeting of the wind and the tears in my eyes, glassing for the boat was not. We reached the outlet and the start of the Kamestastin River - no canoe. Pulling our hoods tight, we faced the wind for the return to camp. Despite the sharp sting of the driven snow pellets and sleet, the wildness of it all was exhilarating. We had only gone a few hundred yards when I heard Gary call out. There ahead of us was the shiny prow of a canoe amongst the rocks. Swamped and on boulders it was in danger of being wrecked, though it must have only just arrived as the damage was yet light.
With difficulty, we managed to empty the ton of water out of it and work it to shore. Reaching the stony beach, I was along the leeside gunwale as a strong gust hit and I heard an alarmed exclamation from Gary. Turning, the image of the flying canoe (rapidly on its way to 70 mph) barely had time to register in my brain before it crashed into me like a linebacker. I took the hit full in the face and chest with no chance to break my fall or protect the back of my head, as I slammed onto the stones and sand. After knocking me flat, to add insult to injury the canoe bounced off my head before continuing on its way inland.
I was stunned but the virtues of a thick skull were apparent, as I was generally fine. We secured the canoe above the spring ice line and returned to camp and our pancake reward; me with a new appreciation for how big a flying 17-foot canoe is.
Back home after cleaning gear and sorting photos, I was working on a painting of caribou crossing a ridge under the rising moon when it hit me; the Flying Canoe flattening me had been an appropriate finish for our adventure since in Innu, “Kamestastin” roughly means, “Place Where the Wind Knocks Things Down”.
posted by Paint'n Paddler at 11:18 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home