THE WEEK I ALMOST DIED TWICE

The Date: July 1967, The Location: North Channel of Georgian Bay on Lake Huron. The organisation: John Island Camp.

The Kismet supply boat stopped about 500 feet from the sandy beach that would become our wilderness home for the next month. One by one the canoes, which had been tied behind the boat ,were brought near, loaded with food, axes, pots pans, matches, clothes, sleeping bags, personal items and the all essential TP (toilet paper). With great excitement and a bit of anxiety the 18 teen-aged campers, guided by our leader Mr.Koski, made our way towards the shore line of Aitken Island,

The closer we got the shore the more evident it became how pristine and undeveloped this magnificent island was. We beached the canoes and together placed our feet on the sandy shore that would be our home for the next month. It was here that we would build all the necessities of home; sleeping shelters, a safe food storage area, build kitchens, fire pits, and a loo to go with the TP.

Our training regimen began the next morning. The trip of a lifetime was only three weeks away and we had to be in shape for the arduous task following the ancient voyageur canoe route from the Spanish River, along the North Shore, down the St Marys River to Sault Ste. Marie. Every day we practiced righting overturned canoes by canoe over canoe rescues, solo paddling, swimming, strength training, water proofing sleeping bags, practiced first aid and developed menus and food lists for the week long adventure.

The day of our departure arrived and we began packing the all important food. We packed the last meal of the last day first and successively backwards from there to lunch on day one. A large bag of prunes was placed in the bow of every canoe for daily sustenance. Before long we were heading up the Walesback, past John Harbour and on our way to the unpredictable waters of the North Channel. Just out side Iron Bridge when we encountered our first disaster.

We had been surfing down the front side of four foot waves when the rogue wave struck. Looking over my shoulder from the bow seat all I could see was a wall of water picking up the stern of the canoe. With in seconds the canoe was doing a cartwheel. Seconds later we were capsized and swimming as hard as we could in the turbulent waters. The canoe survived, we survived, I and still had my glasses on. Later that evening we would discover that our water proofing techniques were proven adequate as we would sleep in dry sleeping bags under the shelter of our overturned canoe. The remaining two days were uneventful. Paddling for six to seven hours each day, we often took breaks by lashing two canoes together and hoisting a small piece of canvas as a makeshift sail, allowing the strong winds of the North Channel to guide us towards our daily evening camp site. By day five we had finally reached the mouth of the St. Marys River. With-in a few hours the second disaster would strike.

The current in the river was running about 3-4 miles per hour and our average paddling speed 4-5 miles per hour. The trip up the river should have taken an hour or so; it was going to take us a whole day. Ever so slowly we progressed from marker buoy to marker buoy resting at each one and hanging on for dear life so our forward progress would not be impeded. A narrow section of the river would prove to be our undoing.

We were making our way along just inside the shipping channel markers when a very large Bethlehem Steel freighter came up behind us. Looking up toward the forward deck we could see a deck hand mimicking our paddling action, while other deck hands cheered us on. Suddenly the water around our canoe began to churn violently and the canoe began to be pulled backwards towards the stern of the freighter. We could hear the low rumble of the giant propeller, slowly we were being sucked into its wake…at 15 years of age I thought were about to die. We paddled with all our strength, but to no avail. We were being drawn into a whirlpool created by the prop wash and the wall of water being displaced by the sheer volume of the ship. Death was immanent. Suddenly we found our selves being shot away from the ship towards the shore. Like a rocket our canoe flew forward though the water and beached itself on the exposed shore line. We had survived, we were in tact, the canoe was intact, and we had escaped. Nervous laughter soon turned again to horror as we watched a three foot wall of water racing towards the shore, smash into our canoe and once again throw us into the water. The ship was pushing a might wall of water out of its way as it traversed the narrows of the river and as the stern passed our location that same wall of water returned with a vengeance.

We arrived in The Sault. near suppertime, exhausted, tired and excited that we had completed the ancient route taken by the voyageur sand would go down in Canadian history. There to great us was the John Island truck, the canoe rack on the back and enough money for a nice restaurant cooked meal. We had completed our assigned task, delivered all the campers and red canoes intact and on time. Our summer adventure had come to an end but the memories would last a lifetime.