Norway House from Swan River Rock in 1878. Four York boats are moored in front of the settlement.
As promised, I was collected and taken back to the base. Albert Tait was there again keeping everyone amused with his stories. Ken was nowhere to be seen. The radio in a corner was turned up loud, with many of the crew and a few other guys hanging around it. Someone called for quiet. For a few minutes we listened carefully while Ken was interviewed by a reporter, her clear, confident voice contrasting with Ken’s nervous tones. He acquitted himself well enough and answered the questions in a reasonably professional manner.After a little prompting from the interviewer he even admitted there was one non-Cree among the expedition team, although he seemed to have trouble remembering my name and where I came from.
There was a mood of excitement all around. It looked as though the expedition was about to become a reality. Ken came back and rattled off a series of orders in Cree, none of which I understood. Albert offered to take me for a drive around the community, and finish up at the Northern store (a grocery store chain operated by the North West Company that caters to remote northern Canadian communities) where last-minute food purchases would be made. Ken’s orders, I soon learned, were to help him get the food supplies.
As we roamed the narrow paved roads sheltered by trees, Albert talked of The Creator. Albert, who admits he used to be a powerful drinking man, (his words, not mine) is a thoughtful born-again Christian in his late thirties. He gave me a braid of sweetgrass19 that he had woven for me the night before.
“Take this with you. It is sacred. It will keep you safe. And think of The Creator each day,” he told me. I put the pleasantly scented braid in my pocket and hoped he was right. Thanks to Albert’s kindness I felt a little more confidence in the coming adventure. To this day, that braid of sweetgrass hangs in the cabin of my sailboat within arm’s reach of the chart table. Each time I see it I am reminded of Albert; his kindness to me and his wonderful sense of humour.
Albert told me the Métis, his people, are products of the fur-trade era. Sometimes rudely referred to as half-breeds, the Métis are a relatively new people who sprang from the coming together of Native women — usually Cree, and the male fur traders — mostly French Canadian voyageurs, plus some Scots. In 1994, the year of the Norway House Hayes River York boat expedition, the Métis were still campaigning for their rights as status, or treaty, Indians.20
In 1819 Norway House was a tidy settlement surrounded by a palisade.
At the Northern store we loaded our supplies onto a couple of pickup trucks and took them to the dock. Tubs of lard, a couple of sides of bacon, scores of eggs, loaves of white bread, packages of wieners and hamburger patties, dozens of cans of soft drinks, and more, were all piled into the plastic ice chests. We wouldn’t starve, but we certainly weren’t planning to eat healthily for the next while.
Four of the crew departed in a small motorboat to tow the York boat from its mooring near Charlie’s home. The rest of us began the task of moving mounds of equipment and food from the expedition warehouse and dumping them unceremoniously on the dock. When the York arrived, nearly an hour later, Wayne commented that they had had to bail a heck of a lot of water out of it and offered the opinion that a recent rainstorm was responsible. I hoped he was right.
Two men spread a large, blue, heavy-duty plastic tarpaulin in the boat. Big enough to fold over, it would serve to protect our personal baggage from water. Rain would be a potential problem in an open boat; the rivers and their associated dangers would create another form of damp. Other crew members sorted the food supplies properly in the ice chests and placed them in accessible positions in the boat. Two of the chests became foot rests for the rowers. Everything else was stowed under the bow and stern decks.
I asked about a tight roll of commercial firehose pushed far up under the stern deck. Everyone was too busy to answer me. I couldn’t imagine what it was for. Without a pump it certainly wouldn’t put out any fires.
A few kids watched as we loaded. Some older men came to sit and offer advice and encouragement. A canoe with an old battered outboard motor pulled up on the opposite side of the dock. That, I soon learned, was our support vessel. The expedition cook, Ken Ormand Sr., would be in charge of the canoe. Once on the river, Ken Ormand proved to be an excellent wilderness cook, even if he did use too many cholesterol-laden foods for my liking. Never did we go hungry under his culinary care.
Ben Paul, a quiet and shy man, came over and introduced himself. He was going home to Oxford House and had persuaded Ken McKay to let him travel in the canoe. He would help out with camp chores and assist on the portages. Later, when we got closer to Oxford House Reserve, his knowledge of the river would prove useful.
In total the expedition would number thirteen of us. Eight rowers on the York boat, plus Ken McKay on steering oar and John Wesley on bow watch. Ken Ormand and Ben would be in the canoe and I would switch between the two boats, depending on my photographic needs.
We took our places in the boats without any fanfare. With volunteer rowers at a couple of oars, we moved the York over to Church Point. A large crowd had gathered to see us off: friends, relatives, and the curious. Some stood and some sat on the grass. All were there to attend a short religious service on our behalf and to say goodbye. No doubt there were those who wondered if any of us would be seen again.
The rowers pulled the York and canoe close to the rocks and stepped ashore. With caps off and heads bowed, we listened to the minister’s strong voice as he intoned the prayers. As discreetly as possible, I took a few photographs to record the solemn scene. Two guitarists tuned up and led us all in a couple of hymns, with enthusiastic help from the open-air congregation.The Lord’s Prayer completed the service and the minister wished us a safe voyage.
As a final gesture, Charlie rolled our red square of sail out on the grass and invited the onlookers to sign their names with a black felt marker pen. Many did so while the others milled around, shaking hands with all of us. Quiet farewells were said by mothers, fathers, wives, sisters, brothers, and children. It was hard not to feel like a gate crasher at a private event. Even so, I was not ignored. Many people grasped my hand, patted me on the shoulder and wished me safe travels. Those few emotional moments as we prepared to embark would stay with us throughout our journey.
“Let’s go, boys!” Ken McKay signalled our departure by boarding the York first. Behind him, the rowers took their assigned places. I seated myself on the foredeck and John Wesley joined me there. Ken Ormand and Ben moved off in the canoe.
Ken McKay, town councillor, furniture manufacturer, boat-builder, and adventurer, called out the words we would soon know so well:
“Aha, boys! Oho, boys! Come on, boys! Let’s go, boys!”
The eight long oars dipped simultaneously into the lake, forcing us to back away from the shore. Ken swung the steering sweep to one side; the oars cut into the water again and the boat moved forward. The Norway House Cree Home Guards’ York boat expedition, from Norway House to York Factory, was under way at last. The time was 1:40 p.m. on August 17, 1994. From the shore a voice came over a loud hailer on the roof of a truck, “Good luck, guys. You will be in our prayers each day.”
For the first hour and twenty minutes there was little talk. The rowers, all well-practised after the recent York boat races on Playgreen Lake,21 dropped into an easy rhythm. On the steering oar, Ken McKay beamed happily. His dream of many years — to re-enact a traditional York boat voyage from Norway House to York Factory, just as his forefathers had done so many times — was at last coming true.
Off to our right and slightly ahead, the canoe puttered along