I often think about that elder with her long grey hair and toothless smile as she gave me that most precious gift. I occasionally still see her dancing at powwows and we continue to exchange smiles. We never did speak in words, yet to me she was a prima ballerina of the Northwoods ballet. She shared with me her ancient traditions and ancestral secrets — how to feel the dance of water on a lakeshore, deep in the heart of the Canadian Northwoods.
~Zabe MacEachren
Kingston, Ontario
The Sourtoe Cocktail Club
There are strange things done in the midnight sun,
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales,
That would make your blood run cold.
~Robert W. Service, “The Cremation of Sam McGee”
In 1990, my husband and I crossed Canada, from Montreal all the way to Dawson City in the Yukon. It was the kind of trip you take when you’re young and adventurous. We took our time, taking four days to cross Ontario alone, stopping to camp at some of the most beautiful national parks in the country, waking to early morning mist off of Pancake Bay, visiting the port in Sault St. Marie (also known as the Soo), spending a day at Fort William in Thunder Bay where the Sleeping Giant lies, and tasting homemade moonshine on a derelict campground in Manitoba. In Vancouver, we stayed with a friend and walked along rugged beaches that were covered in kelp.
From there we headed to the Northwest Territories, one of the most spectacular sights I’d ever seen. The Klondike Highway is narrow and endless. Rest stops are far and few between and when you see one, you’d better stop, because if you don’t, you will most certainly run out of gas. Every gas station had a helicopter, a restaurant and showers. We slept in the car on this two-day trek, barely getting any real rest because of the midnight sun; the days never get dark. We drove to the closest gas station and took a shower for a dollar while we waited for our bacon and eggs. In Whitehorse, we stayed at the cheapest hotel we could find and decided this would be our turnaround point. It was time to go back.
The next day, as we were looking for a bite to eat, we ran into a fellow from New Zealand who was hitchhiking through Canada that summer. His name was Peter Cooper. We chatted for a bit and when we told him we were heading back home the next day, he said, “Oh, no, you must keep on to Dawson City.”
“Yeah, that’s what my father told me on the phone yesterday,” I said.
“If you do, you must go to the Eldorado Hotel and ask for Captain Dick,” Peter Cooper insisted.
“Why?” we inquired.
“Because that’s where you will find the Sourtoe Cocktail,” he answered, and refused to tell us more. So we bought him a cup of coffee and chatted about his country for a while. When he told us he would be in Montreal a month or so later, we gave him our phone number.
“Feel free to stay with us, Peter,” we said. This young New Zealander had piqued our curiosity about our own country.
That night, we decided to continue on to Dawson City. We drove by Lake Labarge on Highway 2, the very lake featured in the famous poem “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by one of my favourite poets, Robert Service. I just had to have a picture of myself standing next to this section of the Yukon River. And then we drove north to Dawson City and rented a little cabin on the outskirts of town. When we entered the town, it felt like we had driven backwards in time. The raised sidewalks were all warped from permafrost and the façades looked like they were left over from gold-digging days.
We didn’t have to look far to find the Eldorado; it was in the very heart of Dawson. We walked in and asked the bartender where we could find Captain Dick. He pointed to an old fellow sitting at the back of the bar. He was rolling a cigarette and minding his own business. I walked right up to him, put out my hand and said, “Hi! I hear you may be Captain Dick and you do something called the Sourtoe Cocktail. A fellow from New Zealand told us about you, believe it or not. Are you Captain Dick?”
“That’s me,” he said, barely looking up from the cigarette he was rolling.
“Can you tell us about the Sourtoe Cocktail?” I asked. He took out a tiny jar, placed it on the table. It was filled with salt, and something brownish sticking out from the top… it was a toe!
Both my husband and I took a step back, disgusted by the sight. Captain Dick smiled. He told us that if we gave him five dollars, and if we dropped the severed but sterile human toe into our cocktail drinks and drank up until the toe touched our lips then he would give us a membership card stating that we were officially members of the Sourtoe Cocktail Club.
We’d come this far, I thought, so why not? I took the challenge and watched this toe slide toward my tightly closed lips as I gulped down my Bloody Caesar. This small act of bravery would make me member 8,349.
“Where did you get it — the toe I mean?” I asked.
“That one was the result of a lawnmower injury,” he replied. It seemed Captain Dick had a few in stock, donations from all parts of the country. He told us countless stories of this tradition he had started in 1973 when travelling from Nova Scotia to the Northwest Territories to work as a ferryboat conductor on the Yukon River. Chuckling, he told us that some German tourist had misunderstood and had actually swallowed the horrific thing. Another tourist had stolen the toe and he’d had to resort to the RCMP!
“Well, you won’t be more of man than I am, so I’ll give it a go too,” said my husband. The toe was then plunked into his glass of beer, which immediately started to fizz. He drank his beer in one shot, making sure the toe only touched his lip. We were now both official members.
The next day we began our drive home with one hell of a story to tell, a story I still tell my students today. What a great icebreaker to begin a class! And all this thanks to a Kiwi — who would visit with us a month later — who told us Canucks about this odd northern tradition.
Today, The Sourtoe Cocktail Club lives on in Dawson City. The Eldorado Hotel has been renamed the Downtown Hotel, and Captain Dick Stevenson is gone, to be replaced by Captain River Rat or another. The Toe is usually dunked into a glass of whisky, perpetuating this initiation rite of becoming a true blue “sourdough,” a tough survivor of the Great White North. As the words of the poem go, “There are strange things done in the midnight sun…”
~Julie Hamel de Belle
Pincourt, Quebec
Living a Dream
Canada is a country built on dreams. Dreams of men and women who came here from many of the countries I have traveled through. If you combine the richness of the country with the spirit of the people, our potential as a nation is unlimited.
~Rick Hansen
The Ice Pond of My Dreams
God gave us the gift of life; it is up to us to give ourselves the gift of living.
~Voltaire
I was ecstatic as I left the Lounsbury Company in Moncton, New Brunswick, my arms wrapped tight around my parcel. It was 1959, I was twenty-five years old, and I had finally purchased my very own skates, known as “Reachers.” Since I had moved to the city to study nursing and learned that skating at the Forum was the new “in thing,” buying the Reachers had become my goal.
Skating was my passion, but I loved everything about winter. The first crackle of frozen puddles under my feet was music to my ears. While others dreaded the harsh winds blowing off the Northumberland Strait, I loved our little fishing village on the southeastern shores of New Brunswick the most when it was covered in a blanket of snow. It wasn’t that I didn’t like swimming in the ocean in summer, but in winter I could build snow forts, have snowball fights with my brothers, and experience the thrill of skating on a frozen ice-pond after clearing away the drifts of snow.
At school, the only subject I enjoyed was geography. By the end of the school day, I was staring out the window, planning how I could make it home before my brothers. With eight kids, our family could afford few luxuries, so my father bought one pair of Reachers — in the largest size — that we all had to share. The
smaller children had to stuff the toes to make them fit. Whoever got home first got the Reachers. If I missed my chance it meant an afternoon without skating, and I’d have to stay inside doing chores with my mother and two sisters. I much preferred spending time with my five brothers; I was determined that anything they could do, I could do better!
When I arrived home and claimed the Reachers, nothing else mattered. Any hardships were quickly forgotten; there was just me and my frozen ice-pond dreams. I became a beautiful figure skater like Barbara Ann Scott as I imagined skating on all the beautiful rivers I’d learned about in geography class.
When I moved away from home I didn’t know how I’d survive without my frozen ponds and the exhilarating winds off the Northumberland Strait. But I left with a goal and a dream: finish nursing school, find a job, and save enough money to buy my own Reachers.
Well, now I had the Reachers, and the moment I skated onto the ice at “The Forum” in Moncton, my passion was renewed. Once again I imagined I was skating on the most beautiful frozen ponds in the world.
Life moved on, and I became a wife, and eventually a mother of five. My dreams of travelling and skating on faraway frozen ponds disappeared as fast as the melting ice in spring.
Yet, as my children grew I became even more of an “outdoor freak.” During snowstorms, I’d bundle up my children and we’d sit on the veranda, enjoying the storm. When it was over we got out our skates and headed down to the Richibucto River with our shovels to clear away the snowdrifts, revealing ice as smooth as a mirror. Chores were ignored as I taught my children the joys of winter, and especially, skating.
The years passed, and one by one, my children skated off on their own. As I watched their wings unfold, somehow a new vision formed in my mind — a new dream. I’d heard about millions of people skating on the world’s largest naturally frozen skating pond — while eating beaver tails. This magical activity happened every winter in central Ottawa.
More research revealed that the cleared length of the Rideau Canal Skateway was 7.8 kilometres, and it had the equivalent surface of ninety Olympic ice hockey rinks! It was open twenty-four hours a day, and I heard it was not unusual to see someone skating towards Parliament Hill with a briefcase. I completely fell in love with the idea of skating on the Rideau Canal.
Even as I became a grandmother, I held on to my vision. When my son, Ricky, landed a job in Ottawa, I realized I could visit him and skate on that canal!
On a cold February morning, I boarded an Air Canada jet in Moncton and headed for Ottawa. In my suitcase was my original pair of Reachers, purchased in 1959.
The very next day my two grandsons, Cole and Logan, accompanied their eighty-year-old grandmother to the Rideau Canal. I couldn’t believe I was finally there. I sat down on a bench, took off my boots, and laced up my Reachers. Then, I glided onto the ice pond of my dreams… with my two grandsons by my side. Cole and Logan suggested we take it slow, but I had a plan. I wanted to skate the whole 7.8 kilometres — and along the way enjoy a beaver tail pastry. These pastries are covered with cinnamon sugar and individually shaped by hand to resemble the tail of a beaver.
Not only did we skate the entire length, but we stopped, rested, ate our scrumptious beaver tails, and then skated the whole way back!
That night as I lay in bed I was as ecstatic as I had been fifty-five years before when I walked out of the Lounsbury Company with my new Reachers. My dream had come true! But I realized I wanted more. The next day I told my son I wanted to skate the Canal at night when it was all lit up — and have dinner at the restaurant overlooking the Canal. And for sure I wanted a beaver tail for dessert.
That night my son escorted me back to the Rideau. I was enthralled by the lights that sparkled on the ice along the length of the Canal, and that second skate, at night with my son, was even more fabulous than the first. As we skated, memories took me back to my fishing village and my childhood dreams, and I was so grateful for the spunk my brothers had given me.
Although my dreams had become misplaced through the struggles of life, I reflected, here I was at the age of eighty, and the magic and spirit were still there. I loved every minute of it: the cold toes and fingers, the taste of cinnamon and sugar on my lips, the lights, the other skaters, and sharing this experience with my son and grandsons. Closing my eyes, I could hear the swoosh of my Reachers on the ice. Silently, I offered a prayer of thanksgiving to God for the physical health and mental ability to live my dream. I had persevered, and the gifts of life were indeed spectacular. Maybe, just maybe, there are still unknown ponds to skate!
~Lorette Smith
Richibucto, New Brunswick
The Viking Voyageur
The first step to getting the things you want out of life is this: Decide what you want.
~Ben Stein
Many years ago I attended a meeting for one of those get-rich-quick schemes. About twenty well dressed people sat in a large living room in a stately home. Dressed in a T-shirt and faded jeans, I knew immediately I didn’t belong.
The presenter asked, “What would you do if you had a million dollars?” After hearing answers about buying yachts, sports cars, big homes etc., I said the first thing that came to mind: “If I had a million dollars, I would get a Viking ship.” Well, the room broke into laughter, and the gentleman hinted that I should leave. So I did.
Years later I had a vision for another kind of boat. Taking a chance, I borrowed money and bought a used thirty-four-foot replica voyageur canoe. The Canadian canoe was an aboriginal creation made originally of birch bark, but my canoe was made of fibreglass and was a replica of the canot de maître, which during the era of the fur trade crossed Canada carrying trade goods and beaver fur pelts. My canoe also had a detachable mast with a large square sail and several red bladed paddles.
My plan was to run an ecotourism business called The Governor’s Canoe from the marina in downtown Kingston, Ontario. I planned to give thousands of people a chance to be a voyageur and paddle into Canadian history. After getting the necessary approvals and permits, I was in business.
Each customer received a life jacket and paddle, and a voyageur costume consisting of a loose printed shirt, a knitted toque and a ceinture fléchée — a traditional colourful woven belt. Once aboard I gave them a brief paddling lesson. In full costume myself, from the back of the boat I steered the vessel, sang traditional voyageur songs, told stories, and gave my “crew” a fun, educational, and satisfying adventure.
I told stories of how the hardy French Canadian and Mohawk voyageurs risked their lives paddling and portaging their canoes and ninety-pound backpacks over hundreds of portages along their route. I talked about how they were tough yet jovial men. I also told them how many voyageurs fought for the British during the War of 1812 against the United States. As soldiers they lacked discipline, and British officers were aghast at their behaviour and appearance. Even so, the Corps of Canadian Voyageurs played an important role in the War of 1812, as they were naturally suited to the kind of skirmishing that frequently occurred.
In the mid 1990s I was invited to Gananoque, a small town about twenty kilometres east of Kingston, to take part in a summer festival. Four tall ships and hundreds of people were gathering to be part of a historical re-enactment. Some friends helped me sail my canoe down the St. Lawrence River through the Thousand Islands to Gananoque. With the square canvas sail hoisted, the big canoe ploughed through the waves and actually created a wake!
Once we arrived I began offering Voyageur Canoe adventures from the Gananoque dock. I frequently headed out into the St. Lawrence with a canoe full of paddlers bound for Half Moon Bay in the rocky Admiralty Islands, just across the channel.
One evening a group of volunteers from the upcoming tall ship event approached me. The Commodore in charge asked, “How would you like to include your canoe in a re-enactment of a War of 1812 naval battle? You just need to show up for a briefing the night before.” I happily agreed, saying I’d represent the infamous
Canadian Corps of Voyageurs. But on the night of the meeting I had paying customers and couldn’t make it.
On the morning of the re-enactment, again I had two trips booked. The planned naval battle was to take place in an hour, but I had a young couple, three teachers from France and my sister Betsy and her husband Ken with me. How was I ever going to participate in this naval re-enactment? Then I came up with a plan.
I’d missed the meeting, but I asked my new crew of “voyageurs” if they’d be willing to remove their life jackets and paddle right into the War of 1812 re-enactment. They all agreed enthusiastically, so we paddled off to Half Moon Bay until we heard cannon fire in the distance. At that moment we turned the canoe around and paddled hard toward the action. Once we could see the battle through the haze of smoke, we removed our life jackets. Then I raised the Union Jack flag on the stern and we paddled as fast as we could toward the tall ships. Musket fire and cannons blasted all around us, and the smoke seemed to cover the fact that I had no muskets aboard, nor any military moves planned, except to make a lot of noise and blast out a loud reveille on my old bugle!
On the shore was an audience of about a thousand people who’d gathered to watch the action. The MC was broadcasting a play-by-play over a loudspeaker while a Jolly Boat full of British marines fired muskets. Winging it, I yelled something about the Canadian Corps of Voyageurs fighting in His Majesty’s service, and then we paddled furiously through the smoke to the port side of the American ship. We shouted and yelled and waved our paddles as if we were actually doing something. More musket shots rang out, and then I turned the canoe toward the shore in the direction of the audience, before paddling back to my home dock. I didn’t look at the organizers or the Commodore on shore. Having improvised our military manoeuvres after missing the briefing, I figured I was in big trouble.