ROAD TRIP

Draw a line due north from North Cape, extend it about four hundred kilometres, straight across Anticosti Island, and you’ll hit Havre-Saint-Pierre, a tidy community of some 3,500 hundred souls on the shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.  I’d been here once as an employee of the Parks Canada Agency and vowed to return someday with my best friend.  We decided it would be as good a place as any to mark our 40^th wedding anniversary on August 15.

We left Charlottetown on Sunday, August 9, and stopped in Dieppe where we attended our grand-niece, Rubie’s, baby shower.  We made it to Campbellton that evening and, early Monday morning, crossed the mouth of the Restigouche River and into Québec.  Up the Matapedia Valley to Amqui, then north to Matane where we boarded the brand-spanking-new F.-A. Gauthier for the two-and-a-half-hour ferry crossing to Baie-Comeau.  We drove six hours east on Highway 138, arriving in Havre-Saint-Pierre just before suppertime, and checked in to our comfortable housekeeping unit at Gîte Chez Françoise.  Françoise is a delightful lady and made us feel welcome right away.

Havre-Saint-Pierre is a popular destination for tourists wishing to experience something different.  It’s home base for the Mingan Archipelago National Park, a chain of protected islands with unique flora, fauna and geological features.  The local mine, producing a high-grade ore of titanium and iron, employs 350 people and is the principle economic driver.  The town boasts a beautiful beach, modern marina, brand-new performance venue, two good restaurants, and all the conveniences one would expect to find in a small, if somewhat isolated, regional centre.  It’s the perfect location for visitors like us who enjoy active vacations.

The first morning, we straddled our bikes and headed out of town on the 138 toward Baie-Johan-Beetz.  Elva asked: “What direction are we going?”  My answer: “There’s only one road.  We’re either going east or west.  Where’s the sun?”  Still she couldn’t figure it out.  But I keep trying!  She is getting better at drafting and figuring out the direction of the wind.

The 138 is as nice a road as I’ve cycled: flat as piss on a plate, smooth pavement, light traffic, a wide shoulder, and considerate motorists.  The sun was shining and there was just a light breeze.  We pedalled along at a nice pace, crossing a rather bleak landscape featuring bogs and ponds, stunted black spruce and eastern larch; an ecological region that covers much of northern Canada called the “taiga”.  At the 25-kilometre mark, we turned for home, fighting a slight headwind.

That afternoon, we took a stroll along the beach and into the centre of town, stopping to visit the craft store and taking a very interesting guided tour of the local museum.  My first time here, I was quite surprised to hear the Madelinot accent and to see the Acadian flag everywhere.  In the 1850s, six families left the Magdalen Islands in search of a better place to live, and settled here.  Their descendants have retained the distinctive accent and many of their ancestors’ traditions, and feel a strong kinship to Les Îles.

Day 2 started out raining and wasn’t promising to get any better.  So we decided to drive to the eastern terminus of the 138.  After crossing sixty-five kilometres of empty taiga we came to the pretty little village of Baie-Johan-Beetz, home to 81 hardy souls, named after a Belgian naturalist who settled there in 1897 and was instrumental in developing the silver fox industry.  His impressive manor house, referred to as Le château by locals, is shown in the photo below.

An hour or so later, we arrived in Natashquan, birthplace of revered Québec chansonnier Gilles Vigneault.  After visiting the local tourist information centre, we headed east again, toward the last village on the 138, Kégaska.  The pavement ended just east of Natashquan and we drove 44 kilometres across a very fine gravel surface, meeting only two cars along the way.  Kégaska is a fishing village, population 138, and only recently linked to the outside world by road.

I stopped at the Welcome Centre located next to the two-room school and asked the woman in French if she could tell me a bit about the village.  She answered, in an unmistakeable Newfoundland accent, that she didn’t speak French.  I learned that the village was founded at the end of the 19^th century, mostly by Newfoundland fishermen.  And so the accent…

We walked along the wharf and spoke to three cod fishermen from the village of Tête-à-la-Baleine, 150 kilometres down the coast, then visited the Anglican church, noting from the register that tourists from France and Switzerland had found their way to the end of the 138 that day as well.

Just beyond the village, we came to the airport, a gravel strip, and watched as the attendant drove out onto the runway to check that everything was OK, ready for the arrival of the Air Labrador plane.  Two women drove up with their luggage.  I asked them where they were going.  “To Chevery”, they replied, in a pronounced Newfoundland accent.  “It’s the next village downshore.”  Turns out Chevery is where Kégaska students go by boat or plane to continue their schooling after Grade 8.  Fascinating!

Back in Natashquan, we took the guided tour of La vieille école, an interpretive space devoted to the life and music of Gilles Vigneault, and featuring several of the village characters that make up his songs.  The guide was excellent and, even though it was pouring rain outside, we thoroughly enjoyed our short stay in the little village.

Fog shrouded the village as we awoke on Thursday.  I spent the morning writing while Elva explored on foot.  That afternoon, I headed east on the 138 for a 50-km ride.  We bought a home-made pizza aux fruits de mer at La poissonnerie du Havre.  It was mind-numbingly delicious!  In fact, we tried their pâté au saumon the next evening and it was just as good.  If you ever come to Havre-Saint-Pierre, check it out!

Friday was the first of two days we spent in the archipelago.  We boarded a zodiac for the twenty-minute trip to Quarry Island.  A Parks Canada guide led us on a one-hour walk across the island, stopping along the way to explain features of the various ecological zones.  On our own, we walked around the eastern half of the island, enjoying magnificent views of the monoliths and the unspoiled landscape.

After lunch, the zodiac dropped us off at nearby Niapiskau Island.  We walked the 4.5-kilometre trail from the dock to l’Anse aux Bonnes Femmes, home of the Park’s iconic monoliths named les bonnes femmes because a few, and one in particular, have distinctly feminine silhouettes.  The one shown below is called Madame de Niapiska.

We booked our second island excursion in Longue-Pointe-de-Mingan.  Before sailing, we drove to the nearby village of Rivière-au-Tonnerre.  We’d been told the church was well worth visiting.  Saint-Hippolyte was patterned on the monumental Sainte-Anne de la Pointe-de-l’Église (Church Point) in Nova Scotia.  In addition to being a place of worship, it’s an incredibly beautiful work of art and a tribute to the pioneers of the parish who built it entirely by hand, including the intricate interior carvings.

We hit the jackpot, arriving just in time for a guided tour with local historian Yvon Bezeau, an 89-year-old dynamo who enchanted us with tales of the village’s origins as well as the fascinating story of the building itself.  We could have listened to him all morning!  From the church, we made our way to the nearby Maison de la chicoutai, a boutique featuring products made from my now-favourite berry, the chicoutai, or cloudberry, also called plaquebierre by we Acadians.

Back in Longue-Pointe-de-Mingan, we boarded a twenty-foot open outboard and placed our trust in our weathered, toothless captain, a retired fisherman who’d plied the local waters for most of his life.  Soon, we were ashore on Île Nue (Bald Island) where a Parks Canada guide gave us an interesting tour of the monoliths.  We even found a few fossils, of the 500-million-year-old variety from the Ordovician period, embedded in limestone along the shore.

Next, we sailed to nearby Île Perroquet, home to a lighthouse and a thriving colony of Atlantic puffins, locally known as perroquets de mer, more properly, macareux moines.  Our guide explained the interesting human history of the tiny eight-acre island which was home to five lighthouse keepers and their families until the light was mechanized in the 1950s.  We had plenty of time to observe and photograph the puffins.  As added bonuses, we saw porpoises and grey seals, and I had my first taste of sea urchin roe.  Delicious!

Then, it was back to the Poissonnerie du Havre to pick up our 40^th anniversary meal: lobster and snow crab.  Yum!  Yum!

As we say goodbye to this charming area, I’m left with a few observations.

1.    With careful planning, you can get to this area in a day’s drive from Charlottetown.  There’s lots to do here, accommodations are cheap, the people are very friendly, each community has a unique and fascinating history, and the unspoiled landscape is very different from what we’re accustomed to. 

2.    Villages here are defined by what year they were founded, where the pioneers were from, and when the 138 arrived: 1976 in Havre-Saint-Pierre; 1996 in Natashquan; and 2013 in Kégaska.  Maybe someday, the 138 will link Kégaska to Blanc-Sablon, almost 500 distant on the Québec-Labrador border. 

3.    Everywhere we went, people made it clear they knew their history and that it was important to them.  This applied to the English in Kégaska and the French we met elsewhere.  Unfortunately, we didn’t connect with any of the local natives, the Innu.  As for the French, they feel strongly connected to the Îles-de-la-Madeleine.  Even more impressive to me, they know what came before: le Grand dérangement and, before that, la nouvelle France.  I wish I could say the same about les gens de par chez-nous. 

 

4.    L’Acadie is a real place for me.  Natashquan and Havre-Saint-Pierre form one end of the chain that begins on the west coast of Newfoundland in Cap-Saint-Georges and extends through Cape Breton Island down to Argyle and Clare counties in southern Nova Scotia, through New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island and well into the Gaspé.  No one can truly know and understand l’Acadie unless and until they’ve visited each and every one of the unique links that together form this chain and met the fascinating people who’ve kept our culture alive against all odds.

 

WELL, WELL, WELL!

Say these three words to anyone over 40 in Egmont Bay, or indeed to anyone who got to know the man, and they’ll answer: “Ça, c’est Jos à Denis!”  It was the trademark expression by which we came to know and love the man.  My beloved father-in-law, Joseph D. Arsenault, left us far too soon, six years ago today.

I knew Jos before I knew Elva.  I first met him at our house where Mom would have introduced him as a member of the Board of Directors of the Wellington Co-op.  We’d welcome the Directors as they arrived, and chat before the meeting began in our kitchen.  Rather than go to bed or watch TV, I’d sit at the foot of the stairs and listen to what was being said.  I learned that Jos was a brother of Edward, our next-door neighbour.

From the first time I walked into Jos’ house to pick up Elva, I felt welcome.  I saw this incredible man do what came so naturally to him.  And I saw him welcome many others into his home over the years.  He was a kind and generous man who had a simple philosophy about life.

Jos and Aline raised eight children, losing five in early childhood.  Like all men of his generation, Jos worked hard to feed and provide for his family.  At various times, he was farmer, fisherman, lumberjack, truck driver, roadmaster and dump attendant.  When something needed building, he built it.  When something needed fixing, he fixed it.  When a neighbour needed help, he was the first one there.

Jos never got past elementary school but he became an avid reader: every newspaper he could get his hands on, French or English, and books, mostly about politics.  It would be fair to say that politics was almost as important in Jos’ life as religion.  And that he held Pierre-Elliott Trudeau in higher esteem than any of the saints in the Catholic pantheon.

Jos and Aline travelled with us to Ontario in 1986.  On a stopover in Ottawa, I’d arranged for he and I to attend Question Period on Parliament Hill.  We sat together in the visitors’ gallery as Liberal Opposition members badgered Brian Mulroney’s ruling Tories.  Jean Chrétien fired a pointed question at the Prime Minister in his trademark flourish of Québécois rhetoric.  Caught up in the moment, Jos sprang from his seat and exclaimed, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Oué!”  Not five seconds later, a security guard had his hand on Jos’ shoulder, whispering in his ear that if he wanted to watch the rest of Question Period, he’d better keep quiet!

Jos and I discussed politics every time I saw him.  But it was always the second topic of our regular conversations, the first being my answer to: “Comment ça va sur la job?”  He took great interest in my career and, although he may not have understood why I changed jobs so often, he never tried to dissuade me.  In fact, I seldom heard him criticize anyone’s life decisions.  He believed that every one of us would find the right path eventually, on our own: “Y fera son chemin!” (“He’ll find his way!”)

I asked him once why he and all the members of his family were such staunch Liberals. He told me that it hadn’t always been so.  One day, shortly after the Tories had won the provincial election, Pierre Gallant (Gros Pete), came up to the road crew and told Jos’ father, the foreman, that they were all fired!  “Allez-vous en!”  The government had changed, they were on the wrong side, and a crew of Tories would take their place later that day.  “Damn de Torés.  Depuis ce temps-là, mon père a toujours voter Libéral!  Pis moi aussi!”

Jos was devoted to his family and his community.  He served as marguillier (church warden), school board trustee, long-time poll chairman, and director of La Société Saint-Thomas-d'Aquin and the Wellington Coop.  He “took the pledge” as a member of the Mouvement Lacordaire to set an example for his young family.  Together with his new wife, he saw to the wellbeing of Aline’s mother, Melanie, and her Aunt Obéline, both of whom lived out their lives in the family home. 

He loved Christmas!

He was a loving and devoted Pépé to our three children and loved their visits.  Sometimes, we left them with he and Aline while Elva and me went off on one of our adventures.  He taught Clément to drive the tractor lawnmower and encouraged him to go faster: “Donnes-y d’la gas!”  He and Aline loved to listen to Jacques sing and play.  Sylvie remembers the time Pépé met her at the door when she stayed out too late one night.  She never forgot the stern lecture he delivered.

Though he never weighed more than 145 pounds soaking wet, Jos was a powerful man, with Popeye forearms and a tireless work ethic.  He smoked for the better part of sixty years and mostly rolled his own Export ‘A’s.  He quit at 75.  I asked him why one day.  His typically understated answer: “Je commençais à avoir le vent court” (“I was getting a bit short of breath”).  He enjoyed a social drink and he loved to dance.  No one  I’ve ever seen could duplicate his “step”.  It was like his many sayings: unique to Jos.

Aline told us once that Jos didn’t venture from his native village of Saint-Chrysostôme to Wellington, only 12 kilometres away, until around the time he got married.  That floored me!  Jos was born into a culture, time and place where one’s life was essentially pre-ordained.  A man knew what he’d likely do for a living, he knew where his wife was likely to come from, and he knew where he’d live.  He knew that, if God willed, he’d have a large family, that he’d be expected to look after aged relatives, and that he’d be looked after by his children in his old age.  He knew where he’d go to church, and where he’d be buried when the time came.

In Jos’ case, as for most men of his generation, there’s much to be said for the pre-ordained life.  He lived it well and he was happy and content with his lot.  Because of his great faith, that his life didn’t end the way he would have liked would not have concerned him.  He believed things turn out the way God means them to.  He never asked for much, and never wanted for much.

I went to see Jos one last time on Sunday, August 9, 2009.  When Elva and I arrived in his room, he was sitting in a chair in the corner by the window.  He smiled at us and gave his standard greeting: “Bein, Hallo!”  First impressions that he knew us were quickly dispelled however as we tried to make him understand things and to engage in basic conversation.  Elva had seen him several times over the previous two weeks and knew what to expect.  The dementia that would take him from us less than a week later was too far advanced.

We had brought him a donut and a Tim Hortons coffee and we watched him struggle with the basic tasks of eating and drinking.  At one point, he picked up the hospital menu and turned it right-side-up, mouthing a couple of the written words but unable to focus for any length of time.  He seemed to enjoy looking out the window but was preoccupied with any noise in the corridor outside his room.  He could no longer speak.

After an hour, we told him it was time for us to go.  He rose from his chair, hugged Elva and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  Then he took my hand in his, gave it the usual firm shake, looked me in the eye and sat down.

My last image of him is from the door of the hospital room.  It will stay with me as long as I’m conscious.  He’s sitting in the corner chair by the window with the sun shining at him from behind.  His beautiful smile and bright blue eyes are fixed on me and he’s waving his right hand.  Because of the angle of the sun, I can see he’s missing the first joint of the middle finger.  He says: “Bye, OK, Bye!”

If there’s an afterlife, he’s watching over us and enjoying his reward.  I hope he’s managed to impart some of his good humour, profound wisdom and common sense to those around him and that they too have come to know him by his trademark: “Well, Well, Well!”