In spite of various alarm clocks’ failure to do their duty, we all managed to appear in person at the boat house in the Belleville harbour at 5 A.M. A few parents came there with their offsprings to wish them a bon voyage and perhaps to see the last of them, but as I was told, anyone born to be hung will not drown, so I at least felt no qualms of returning to 59 Burton Street in one installment.
At exactly 5.20 eastern standard time, before the sun had decided to start work for the day, we set sail or rather dipped paddle. Dame Fortune smiled her sweetest, for as we glided swiftly and silently out of the harbour neither wind nor waves deigned to offer opposition. An observer on the Bay Bridge said that we made a very picturesque silhouette as with rythmical and graceful movement we came out of the sunrise, under the bridge and off into the distance until we were mere dots.
[♬ Listen to Alec Gordon's recording of his composition 'Sunrise' ♬]
When we reached the first lock we found a grouchy old cove who snapped out, “Oh no, we don't take you fellows up.” Arguing was superfluous so we had to make our first portage. Ralph strapped the paddles of our canoe to the thwarts and carried the canoe on his shoulders Indian-style. The rest of the crew were not so adept so the other canoes were carried up between two boys.
We had portaged the first three locks before we were told that we would be locked through if we offered to help the lock keepers open the valves. This, of course, we did willingly and were locked through in from 8 to 10 minutes. One of the occupants of each canoe would get out to help and the other would take the canoe through. It was quite an unusual thrill being lifted up bodily or shall I say boatily 20 or more feet.
Frankford was eight miles up the river and there were six locks between us and it so we did not make such good time in that section of the river. In the mean time our stomachs were craving nourishment, often emitting gurgles like the subdued grumblings of a sullen volcano.
At last we reached Frankford and stopped above the village for dinner. Breakfast was an event of so remote a distance that a dinner of beans, fruit salad, bread and tea touched the proverbial spot to a T.
After the dishes were done we once more set out in the heat along a seven mile stretch of low swampy land where the river meandered from side to side of a wide valley. The shores were a jungle of exquisite vegetation. Many pretty and gaudy flowers contrasted their splashes of colour with the many hues of green of the underbrush. Among the daintiest of the water flora were numbers of beautiful white water lilies.
Honour, obeisance, they all give to thee,-
At the end of this seven mile stretch, the first four canoes locked through at Chisholm’s rapids and went on to find a camping spot for the night. We found a fairly level site at the foot of a well-wooded slope above the dam so disembarked and made ourselves at
home.Swat! The first mosquito has discovered us. His relatives must have heard its dying gasp and several of them came to the funeral. These, too, were soon sent to their reward but not before they had radioed a message to the buzzing hoard that there were eleven sweet, juicy mortals waiting to be devoured.
