Day 4 - Deadhog Point to Fourmile Island (25 km)

Maps provided courtesy of Toporama which contains information licensed under the Open Government Licence – Canada. I have marked my route in blue and portages in red. 

I awoke early at 6 AM. We did get some rain, but nowhere near the 30 mm that was forecast. It had cooled off considerably over the night. There was a steady downpour around 3 AM, but it was short-lived. The wind was still blowing when I awoke, but it wasn't as strong as the previous day. Our tarp did not survive the night, however. I found it on the ground when I rolled out my hammock to survey the world. It was a victim of heavy wind and a burst of rain. I debated whether to put it up again; the skies were still quite overcast. But after another quick weather check on my ZOLEO, I saw that the skies would clear up again in a few hours, so I quietly rolled it up, trying not to wake Dad. 

I had heard Dad's tent tarp flapping through the night. I assumed he probably didn't have a great sleep because of it, so I tried keeping quiet to let him sleep while I got a small cooking fire going to make myself coffee and breakfast. Thankfully, we had plenty of dry wood that we had piled under the tarp the day before. 

There was no need to rush out onto the water that morning. We did have a 25 km paddle to our next booked site, but it was on a section of the river with no obstacles or portages to worry about, other than the possibility of a strong western wind to battle. 

I sat and read my novel next to the fire while Dad was catching up on some sleep. I enjoyed a very healthy amount of coffee while doing so. 

By 7:30 AM, the blue skies were punching little holes in the grey cloud cover. 

Dad woke up shortly after 8 AM and confirmed that he had barely slept over the night, but did manage to catch a few winks in the morning, which was good. I have had sleepless nights on canoe trips before, and it makes for a very long day afterward. He had a coffee to get his day started, and we rehydrated some eggs to stick in a wrap with some bacon -- my favourite backcountry breakfast.  

While we were breaking camp, a large group of canoes came shooting down Little Parisien Rapids. We saw them gather together in a raft flotilla just east of our site and pass around something to eat. When they resumed paddling, they cruised past our site at the base of our jumping rocks. I walked over to the edge of the rocks and said good morning to them. They appeared to be a Boy Scout troop with a couple of adults leading them.

One young, intrepid adventurer who was only about 10 years old exclaimed loudly up at us from the bow seat of his canoe, "I have dried mango!" 

I replied, "Congratulations, buddy! That's awesome!" 

He then proceeded to inform me three or four more times that he, indeed, did have, in his possession, some dried mango. This continued as he paddled out of earshot. It was like some sort of snack-based mantra that possibly helped him alleviate the monotony of paddling. I'm not sure, but I do believe that up until that moment in his young life, his taste buds had not experienced anything quite as wonderful as the taste of dried mango. His enthusiasm for the fruit was both infectious and entertaining. I must admit, I may have had a very similar reaction the first time I tried dried mango. It IS really good. 

Dad and I got a good chuckle out of the experience. For the remainder of the trip, every now and again, in a moment to reduce boredom and just simply to be bloody annoying, I would ask Dad, "Do you know what I could really go for right now?" 

He would reply, "No, what?" 

After a brief pause, I would answer, "Some dried mango." 

Somehow, it didn't get old for me. Dad, on the other hand, might have felt differently. 

We got out on the water just after 10 AM. Even though we had a nice, restful time at the site, we were happy to be moving on, albeit mangoless. I took a photo of our fantastic jumping rock from the water prior to paddling downriver. 

The rains of the night dramatically affected the temperature. The day prior, we had been fighting the heat by frequently jumping in the river. But as we paddled westward from site 422 the following day with the cool wind blowing in at us, now from the northeast, we put on our rain jackets and touques to stay warm. 

The large bay narrowed through a rocky passage as we approached Crooked Rapids, the last of the Five Mile Rapids. 

We passed a lovely campsite on the south bank through the narrows, veered to the south, and then turned to the west again through Crooked Rapids, which was just a swift. 

Just past Crooked Rapids, the river appeared to split into two channels. The north channel would lead into Frank's Bay and to a dead end. The larger main channel to the south was the route we needed to take. In case there were any doubts, there was a route marker between the two channels with a paddle pointing the way.

From there, for the next half hour or so, we worked our way westward across a large bay. We were happy that the wind was at our backs. 

We soon found ourselves at Cross Island, a landmark location on the French River. In 1989, a large white cross was erected at the western end of the island by the Knights of Columbus, a catholic organization, to commemorate two Jesuit missionaries who were buried on the island, allegedly killed by a raiding Mohawk party in the 17th century. 

There doesn't seem to be much information or known history about the event that I could find online. 

The French River is a Canadian Heritage River. Centuries before the French explorers and voyageurs used the river to connect the Ottawa River to the Great Lakes, the Anishinaabe inhabited and used the river as a mode of transportation. The French River has important cultural significance to Indigenous people. I am quite interested in the Anishinaabe point of view of the erected cross on Cross Island, and how they view its presence. I would guess that it might be vastly different from the Catholic lens. 

I did a quick search online to find this viewpoint, but came up empty. However, I would like to note that in 2021, when I first visited Cross Island, there were some orange shirts tied to a tree behind the cross. Of course, the orange shirts are a symbol referring to the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation in Canada, a day that honours the victims of the residential school system. One can only infer that tying those shirts to the tree behind the cross was done as an act of protest. 

However one may feel about the white cross of Cross Island, it is impossible to miss while paddling past. 

A half hour of paddling from Cross Island, we spotted the Haystack Islands ahead. 

The Haystack Islands are a couple of rocky mounds that are a bit of a landmark on the river. Their ragged and rocky features, topped with trees, are interesting to behold. We paddled between them to get the full effect.  

There was a small cabin on one of the islands. I'm not sure, but I think I noticed that the curtains on the cabin's windows were all tattered and torn. The owners were obviously unable to sew them because, as everyone knows, it's very difficult to find a needle in a haystack. 

Apologies. That was very much uncalled for. And, no, we did not notice any curtains in the cabin; it just fit the setup for a very silly joke. 

Half an hour past the Haystacks, we were pulling our boat up on the rocky beach at site 518 to have a rest and a lunch break. 

I knew it to be a nicely treed site with a bench because I had stayed there on the last night of my 2021 trip. It could offer us a bit of shade while we took a short break from the sun. 

We hung out on the site for about 45 minutes. I discovered that I had cell service at the location and made a few texts and calls to check in with family members. We filtered some more water and made some lunch wraps. Unfortunately, we did not have any dried mango. 

Feeling replenished, we carried our food barrel back down to the beach and continued on our way. It's amazing how a nice lunch break can improve one's feelings and mood on a canoe trip. 

The following hour of paddling was uneventful and dull. The river is very wide in this section. A large number of cottages dotted the shorelines, and some formidable power lines crossed the river there with large pylons on both shores. Past the power lines, we entered a large bay where we battled waves from both the increasing power of the wind and the numerous motor boats darting around. 

We eventually rounded Lost Child Bend on our left. 

An Indigenous legend tells the tale of a young boy who was pulled underwater there by an evil spirit. The family and friends of the boy could hear his cries for days underground while they frantically dug holes in the ground to retrieve him to no avail. The only thing we heard paddling past Lost Child Bend was the wind and the hum of distant motor boats. 

Our route took us southward for a short distance with Fourmile Island on our right. South of the island, we turned west again with more cottages and motorboats dotting the landscape. Knowing that this area would be fairly ensconced in cottage country, I booked site 541. It was on a rocky point jutting out into a narrow back bay that sliced into Fourmile Island. As we approached the site, I began dispelling the notion of privacy. A group of people had pulled up their motorboat onto the beach at the north end of the point and were hanging out on the site. When we arrived at the front of the site, they got into their boat and motored away, thankfully; however, this made me think that this was a popular spot with cottagers. 

Unfortunately, my hunch was correct. We made camp and hung out on the site to get a bit of rest in the afternoon. In that time, a number of mototboats travelled in and out of the bay and past our campsite in an endless procession. This continued right up until nightfall, when more boats came into the bay to fish. Sigh. I concluded that the water traffic was unusually high due to the fact that it was a Sunday. The one saving grace was that just back from the open point, there was a nice firepit area in a grove of pines that afforded a bit of privacy. 

In addition to the boating regatta happening nearby, the swimming was fairly poor at the site. The water levels were low, and the surrounding water on all sides of the site was very weedy. We managed to find one narrow place to jump into some deeper water off the point in the channel that didn't have too many weeds, but with so many boats chugging by at low speeds, we could see the gas left behind in the water. 

After having some rehydrated chilli for dinner, we sat by the fire for a bit until after dark when the mosquitoes came out. Thankfully, all of the boats had left the bay by the time we retired to our shelters for the night, and it felt more peaceful again.