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| Bill Footner in later years, probably on the Patuxent River |
A few weeks ago on a rainy day I posted about a Paper Canoe that travelled from Quebec, down the Hudson in the 1870's. On this rainy day, here is one about a trip up the Hudson by canoe to Montreal in 1902.
A while back I wrote a book about Hulbert Footner and it begins with a mention of this cruise, which a young "Bill" Footner and a companion took from near New York City to Montreal. It was, I suppose, my way of providing some excitement in a book which I knew would not otherwise produce much.
For reasons I do not recall, I tracked down the original article Footner wrote about the trip and then copied it into a format that could be used in the book, or in a blog such as this one. It was not included in the book, but it is provided here in its entirety for your rainy day reading pleasure.
The trip up the Hudson is not an easy one and these young men did not object to being towed or accepting rides on barges or canal boats. Sometimes the boats doing the towing, meandered a bit and those being towed were pelted with beer bottles. It was the July 4th weekend, after all. They boys were welcomed by Canadians and made it to Montreal. You can now enjoy the cruise without having to do any paddling and, of course, such a cruise also includes Lake Champlain.
Forest and Stream: A Weekly Journal of the Rod and Gun
Vol. 60, No. 9, Saturday, February 28, 1903. p. 174.
"The Cruise of the Mosquito"
by HULBERT FOOTNER
It was Fourth of July morning; the Hudson lay like a sheet of dusty glass in the sun and the further shore was almost indistinguishable through the hot haze. The long, slim canoe, which we had dubbed Mosquito and painted a beautiful bottle-green, was cleaving the oily surface noiselessly, and the hearts of the crew were light with the prospect of two weeks entire freedom and strange adventures to befall. The mate knelt in the bow, striving manfully to accustom his bones to the strange demands of his position, his bare arms pinking rapidly under the kiss of the sun; baggage was piled amidships, including many goodly things for the refreshment of the inner man, and the skipper sat up on the stern deck and surveyed the course.
We had left Coxsackie, whereto we had taken passage to avoid the tides and squalls and railroad trains of the Lower Hudson, a few hours before, feeling abundantly able to cover the twenty-five miles to Albany before night; but, alas! the humiliating confession must be made, we had done no more than ten before the sun and ebb tide (which he had not escaped after all) had taken all the steam out of our strokes, and we were even now thinking how pleasant it would be to have a tow through the heat of the day.
To that end, we hailed a couple of steamers from midstream, but they did not appear inclined to stop for us. Most inconsiderate, we thought, on a holiday, too, when good will should be in the air. But by and by we came upon a barge moored to a wharf, and about to return to Albany with a load of excursionists. We promptly made fast to the stern, and this was the beginning of our first adventure.
Now excursion barges are not remarkable for speed; I suppose this one made about eight miles an hour; it would have looked slow enough from the shore, but to us in a frail canoe dangling at the stern, with the wake of the clumsy vessel pounding our bows and threatening to capsize us momentarily, the rate was nothing less than terrific. If the barge was moving at eight miles an hour, the water was thrown back of her stern at about the same rate, making our gross progress through the water about sixteen miles an hour, which is pretty good for a canoe. Our line got jammed; and in order to be able to let go at a moment's notice, the mate had to unloose it and hang on by main strength. We determined not to let go the rope until we were actually in the water. The skipper balanced in the stern and tried to steer — tried, because the Mosquito acted exactly like a gamy[sic] fish with a hook in its gills, darting first to one side, then the other. Over and over we'd go, till just as we thought it was all up with us, off she'd shoot to the other side. Our tow line was not long enough, and it was impossible to keep her straight.
The barge was crowded as only excursion barges can be. Those hanging over the stern amused themselves by jeering us, and even peppering us with buns and bits of ice. We were much too busy to think of returning their fire, and it was hard to preserve our dignity. Others seemed to think we were there for the express purpose of filling their pitchers with water, and were quite indignant at our refusal. We would have liked to have had a drink ourselves. I suspected we worked harder for those two hours than if we had paddled, but the excitement of the strenuous ride was fine, and we were able to camp in sight of Albany after all.
On a trip like this there is generally a day when one thing after another goes amiss, and this is the time that proves the temper of the crew. Our run of hard luck struck us on the first night out. In the first place we delayed too long in choosing a camping ground, and darkness commencing to fall, we had to go ashore where we were, and it was the worst kind of a mudhole. Then when the fire was lit a swarm of gnats descended on us, and in combating them the skipper kicked over the soup. We had a miserable supper and a great struggle to put up the tent in the dark, and when we finally managed to turn in, dog-tired and cross, our troubles were not over even then.
Toward morning we were awakened by the steamer Adirondack passing up the river. It was raining hard, and our feet were in a pool of water. We swore at each other for pitching the tent over a hollow, and drawing up our knees prepared to go to sleep again, when suddenly the flaps parted inward and a wave which looked enormous to our dazed senses lifted up and fell on us, followed by half a dozen others. We leaped to our feet, and found that half the tent was pitched in the river; the waves were the rollers from the Adirondack. All the day before the tide had run strong against us, and when we had naturally come to the conclusion it never ran the other way, it had risen in the night and tried to drown us. We decided that tide had a personal spite against the crew of the Mosquito.
That was a miserable morning; everything was soaking wet, and after our sodden breakfast a heavier shower than ever came up. We embarked in the midst of it, and it was a notable sight to see the millions of fat drops plumping themselves all over the face of the river. But the cursed tide was now running out again like a mill-race, and mackintoshes hurt our sun-burned shoulders cruelly. With the greatest efforts we could scarcely make any headwy,[sic] and coming to a wharf presently, we hung on to rest for a while, almost ready to give up.
We enviously watched a launch breasting the current easily. "If we were only hitched on behind!" we exclaimed to each other, and at that very minute, as if in answer to our prayer, the launch ran smack aground. You may be sure we did not take long to go to her assistance. We found a crew of eight men on board and seven of them giving orders. It immediately became apparent that the gentlemen had been celebrating the holiday not wisely, but too well. The eighth was even now fortifying himself in the cabin against the horrors of a watery grave. Of course with our light craft we could do nothing to help them, but we hung around and added our voices to the seven already talking, and when the launch finally slid off the stones, the grateful gentlemen gave us all the credit for it and immediately offered to tow us up against the current.
The sun came out, and our troubles were over. One of the crew took up a position on the stern of the launch, and with the kindest intent bombarded us with bottles of beer. His aim was bad, and we nearly capsized trying to catch them; but fortunately some came fairly aboard. Whenever we became thirsty during the rest of the trip we always thought regretfully of those bottles of beer lying at the bottom of the Hudson. As it might be supposed, our friends steered as straight as they would have walked on land; zigzag is the word to describe our course. When the channel marks indicated the right bank we hugged the left; when we should have stayed on the left we straightway crossed to the right. However, the Providence who is supposed to look after jovial gentlemen brought us to Albany without further mishap.
The next three days were occupied in passing through the Hudson and Champlain canal. One might think that seventy miles of such a narrow, sluggish waterway would become monotonous, but such is by no means the case. There was more variety than on any part of our trip. You obtain an intimate personal view of the country from the canal; you have plenty of company, and may talk to passers-by on the banks. You look up and down the village streets and into the very doors of the houses, as it were, and all the time the banks are moving past at a most encouraging rate, whereas on a big piece of water you scarcely seem to progress at all. Lastly, as we told ourselves over and over, there was no tide with a grudge against us.
When we wanted a change of exercise we landed, lit our pipes and trudged along the tow-path towing the Mosquito. We could always find a good camping spot on the bream side (opposite the tow-path). In many places quantities of berries hung over the water waiting to be picked; the numerous locks provided a spice of excitement, especially when the lock tender proved ill-tempered at having to exert himself for so small a craft, and let the water in too fast; and altogether we enjoyed the canal mightily.
The population took the greatest interest in our progress. They could not understand why two fellows should work so hard just for fun, and when they saw us towing our boat they openly jeered. I suspect they thought it was like a man inviting his horse to sit in the buggy while he took the shafts. The same volley of questions was fired at us twenty times a day: "Where are you from?" "Where are you going?" "How long have you been?" "Do you camp out nights?" etc., etc. It became very difficult to answer the twentieth civilly. The children used to gather around us and ask if we didn't have any home.
The last day on the canal was spent in the most luxurious pleasure. A little steam yacht picked us up early in the morning, and all day we swept between the banks lying at our ease in the canoe smoking and watching the scenery, which was at this end of the canal very beautiful. The country was hilly and broken and quite unspoiled by ugly towns; the canal wound in and out like a river, and numbers of lofty pine and elm trees hung over the water. At noon we prepared quite an elaborate collation while still under way, and ate in style spread out on the suitcase between us. People who witnessed these proceedings from the bank were greatly amused. Afterward we wrote postal cards to our friends, dating them "Canoe Mosquito, En Route," and when at last the owner's wife and her two pretty daughters brought their fancy work out on the after deck of the yacht and fell into conversation with us, our cup of happiness was full.
Forward in the little yacht things were not progressing so smoothly. The owner was engineer, his son pilot and there were frequent clashes of authority between the parent and the navigator. The old canalers who have a childish jealousy and fear of steam craft, would begin shouting to us to slow up while we were yet an eighth of a mile away, and as we passed their barges as like as not they would slyly try to shove us up on the bank. This led to frequent engine room signals, but the engineer was disposed to question the pilot's wisdom, and instead of obeying the signals, he would stick his head out of the engine room window and carry on an argument. Once right in the middle of such a discussion the yacht ran up on the bank, much to the delight of the passing canalers. The crew of the Mosquito earned their tow on this occasion by pulling the larger craft off the mud.
Next morning we proceeded up Lake Champlain under our own power. We were much disappointed with our first sight of that famous body of water; the lower end is no wider than a river, sluggish and foul with marshy banks. For mile after mile under a blazing sun we sought in vain for a place to go ashore; every likely spot was overshadowed by the sign of one Mr. Koch, forbidding us to land at the risk of terrible penalties. We began to wonder if Mr. Koch owned the whole lake shore, but at last, a fine breeze sprang up from astern, and under two umbrellas, which we had brought for the purpose, we soon left the inhospitable shores behind.
When the water became clear we refreshed ourselves with a swim, and later we paddled some miles further in the cool of the afternoon through the most beautiful scenes. Great rocky birch-covered heights now rose abruptly out of the water on either hand, and the narrow lake lay deep between under the sunset glow, all as bright and still as if an enchantment had been cast on the scene.
We met an ancient keeper making his rounds from light to light in the tortuous channel, rowed by his buxom, rosy daughter, and they were the only living things we saw. Presently we found an ideal camping spot on the Vermont shore, and neither the mate nor the skipper will be likely soon to forget the lingering beauty of that evening. We pitched our tent facing the west, and after supper as we smoked at the door the first crescent of the moon shone like a diadem on the brow of the hills across the shadowy lake.
Each day we saw Champlain under a new and lovelier aspect. Once it lay in light silvery mist under a cool sky, and we paddled thirty miles. The next two days, by which time we had entered on the widest part, the sun shone gloriously, and a spanking breeze came out of the north, kicking up a nasty head sea. At first we tried to face it, and the wind and sea were as exhilarating as champagne, but we were nearly swamped and just got ashore in a sinking condition. So we idled in our pine bush camp or explored the country for supplies while the wind blew, and then made a dash up the lake in the calm evenings. Another day it was squally and full of risks. Here the coast formed a succession of deep bays, and cutting across from point to point more than once a squall struck us in the middle several miles from land, and we passed an anxious ten minutes.
A volume could be written in enthusiastic praise of Lake Champlain without exhausting the subject. All the diverse beauties of the most famous spots are here gathered together; it is alternately a tortuous river, a deep-sunken mountain lake, a wide blue inland sea. In places lofty mountains rise sheer out of the water, then green and level farms stretch inland, then the shore line is broken by deep, mysterious, far-reaching bays, fringed with undisturbed pines. One picture that lingers in our memories is of a sheet of water sparkling in the sun, stretching fifteen miles across to Burlington and as far as the eye can see to the north, while on the further shore rise the Green Mountains, hazy in the distance, and on our left hand the Adirondacks lifting shoulder above shoulder.
[to be concluded.]
Vol. 60, No.10, March 7, 1903, p. 193.
"The Cruise of the Mosquito."
BY HULBERT FOOTNER.
At last early on a Sunday morning we entered the Richelieu River, and immediately passed the Canadian boundary marked by a little shanty on the shore. All day the river was full of sailboats and rowboats conveying family parties, and the first thing that impressed us about the Canadians was the greater eagerness with which they amused themselves. This was especially true of the quaint little village of St. Johns, where the whole population was abroad in crazy old rigs or on the river in canoes. Stout old men were paddling with as much zest as the youngsters. We were no longer looked upon as freaks; the Canadians took it as a matter of course that we should go cruising.
We had to enter a short canal at St. Johns to carry us around several dams in the river, and it took the mate the greater part of the afternoon in unwinding red tape to secure the necessary papers — another phase of the Canadian character!
We camped on the canal bank that night, and reached Chambly, the end of the canal, early the next morning. Montreal is only fifteen miles from this point by rail, whereas by water we had still ninety miles to cover. There are eight successive locks at Chambly, and as luck would have it a tow of some twenty barges was descending and an equal number coming up. Seeing that it would be all day before we could get through, we hired a native to carry the Mosquito around the locks on his cart, and her poor old bones were subjected to a sad shaking. As we jogged down the towpath to our eyes the most inextricable confusion of barges and ropes and horses prevailed, with men rushing to and fro bawling in mixed French and English like lunatics; but in reality the barges were being handled with both skill and dispatch. It was a most picturesque scene; the clumsy, snub-nosed barges crawling past each other and bumping in and out of the locks; the skippers leaning on the tillers and shouting all the news since they had last met to their friends bound in the opposite direction; the crews busy with lines and poles; the drivers calling to their straining teams.
Entering the river again, we found ourselves in the heart of French Canada. For the whole length of the Richelieu the character of the country never changed. A road followed either bank, dotted with bare little farmhouses set no further apart than in a village, with their fields stringing out behind, so that each farm which may be several miles deep, has a river frontage. Towering stone churches, with zinc steeples, marked the hamlets which usually faced each other on the river, and it was a matter for wonder that a country so poor could support so many and such fine churches. Each place bore a saint's name — St. Athanase, St. Ours, St. Marc, St. Polycarpe, etc.
At evening we went ashore to ask for supper at a farmhouse. Our linguistic experiences were amusing. Each person assured us he could "Spik Anglis," but it generally resulted that those two words comprised his whole vocabulary. The skipper knew a little French, and given time could arrange a passable sentence in his head, but he could not unfortunately arrange for the replies, and the flood of French that poured forth floored him completely. As for the mate, he was quite ignorant of the language, and was persuaded of the absurd idea that it would be easier for the French to understand a kind of pigeon English than the language properly spoken.
But we fell in with a most hospitable family, and sat up on a kind of second-story platform conversing with the farmer while his wife prepared "jambon et oeufs" for us below. Heads of the neighbors might be seen at the surrounding windows, and the farmer hailed one coquettish damsel in a red wrapper, whom he assured us had been to "Les Etats Unis" and could speak the language. Presently she sidled bashfully over toward us and sat within a window opening on the platform. "You spik French?" she asked the skipper. Non. Parlez-vous Anglais?" he asked in turn. "No." "Too bad! Too bad!" we both softly sighed, and that was the end of a promising flirtation.
But this very difficulty of communication made supper the merriest of meals, and our mutual delight when we succeeded in making each other understand was simply childish. The chairs were low, with high, narrow backs, and every time the mate or the skipper leaned back to laugh he promptly fell over, amid general laughter. They brought out the best in the house for our entertainment.
Next morning we rose from our tent to find it drearily raining. We were disconsolately making breakfast over a smoky fire, when we perceived a tug coming around a bend in the river, towing the barges we had passed in the canal the day before. In fact, we had passed and repassed them several times en route, and had made friends with some of the skippers who had repeatedly invited us on board. They were approaching at a good rate, for the current was considerable, and it was a race to see if we could get ready before they passed. Abandoning the breakfast, we threw everything in the canoe, and by making a great spurt just managed to catch the last barge as it swept by. Our friends were glad to see us, and climbing on board we pulled the Mosquito up after us, and turned her over on the deck.
All day it rained steadily, culminating in a tremendous storm toward evening, and we thanked our lucky stars. for the shelter. We lay on the roof of the cabin under an awning, and all the young fellows, on the tow "came over the lines" and smoked and drank a kind of raspberry water, such as the French are partial to, and told stories on our deck. We heard a great store of experiences "on the boats," and boatmen's balls and wakes ashore. Young canalers are like any other sailors; they balance the enforced tedium of long voyages by riotous times in port.
Our hosts, Jean and Emile, were young French Canadians, who, in the temporary absence of their father and mother, were running two barges lashed together, which they proudly claimed were the finest on the route, and we could readily believe it. Jean was the skipper, a sturdy, square-built fellow, alert and active when the boat got in a tight place, talkative and humorous over his pipe when things were going easily. Emile was crew and cook, softer than his brother and less robust, fond of a dish of tea and the rocking chair in the cabin. He was a bit of a braggart, and subject to considerable chaffing from the others.
When we reached Sorel, the town lying at the confluence of the Richelieu and the St. Lawrence rivers, late that afternoon, the weather still showed no prospect of unending, and Jean and Emile urged us to go on up to Montreal with them. After debating a while we decided to do so, and when we had explored the muddy village a bit, another and a stronger tug took us in tow, and presently we swept out into what is in many respects the noblest of American rivers. We could not sufficiently admire the awe-inspiring sweep and volume of that vast green water, and only the cry of dinner could tempt us off the deck.
The cabin was delightfully cosy after the cold and wet above; it was not only neat and spotlessly clean, but luxurious withal, and a triumph of ingenious arrangement. One-half formed the living room and the remaining quarters were kitchen and stateroom respectively. The articles in those three tiny rooms would make an incredibly long list, and yet it was not in the least overcrowded. There were berths and shelves and cupboards in the oddest corners ; there was room for both a sofa and a mantelpiece; the stateroom not being big enough for a full size bunk, there was a little hole extended under the deck for feet; even the stairs of the companionway lifted up, showing cupboards below.
Emile's dinner was uncommonly good, and we sat long over our pipes, becoming- better acquainted with our hosts. Afterward, between two showers, we paced up and down the deck for an hour, watching the water swirling past, the moon striving with heavy clouds, the dark masses of the shore, the tug breathing heavily on the end of the long steel cable which hung in the water of its own weight, and the piercing lighthouse rays.
I suspect our hosts thought we were out of our wits to take so much unnecessary exercise, but we got rare enjoyment out of that tramp in the dark.
The cabin of the other boat was set aside for our use. This was the newer boat, and the cabin served ordinarily for the mother's sleeping room and the parlor. Its elegance surprised us; the floor was covered with a velvet carpet, paintings hung about the walls and a profusion of ornaments stood on the mantel. There were plush-covered chairs and a wicker rocker tied with a great bow of satin ribbon; there was actually running water and the bed was hung with lace curtains. For a finishing touch, there was suspended from the ceiling a wonderful piece of fancy-work with satin streamers; on it was embroidered "Good lok." On the whole, our stateroom that night was finer than the bridal chamber on a Sound liner.
Next morning the barge was moored at Hochelaga, and the gray walls of Montreal stretched before us grayer than ever in the rain. We still had four days remaining of our vacation, and as we could go no further up the river on account of the current, we had first to find a good camping spot in the neighborhood. We launched the Mosquito again, and bidding goodby to Jean and Emile, crossed the river to Longueuil and made our way by Herculean exertions up the current past St. Helen's Island to a tiny islet opposite the center of the city, but near the other shore. Here we pitched our tent for the last time.
Every day we paddled to the nearer shore and walked across the magnificent Victoria Jubilee Bridge, which is two miles long. This was the most direct way, for the terrible St. Mary's current, which we could not hope to cross, lay between our island and the city. It rained a good part of the time, and our costume consisted generally of ragged mackintoshes, disreputable hats and brilliant bandannas. This, with our brick-red complexions, made us striking figures in the streets of the Canadian metropolis, as we sauntered about seeing the sights. On the last night, after having seen everything, we blew what remained of our funds for dinner at the Queen's Hotel. Our costumes excited considerable attention; however, they did not attempt to put us out.
Sources:
This volume of Forest and Stream was provided by Smithsonian Libraries and is archived at the Biodiversity Library.
For more about Footner, see this slideshow by Diane Harrison at the Calvert County Historical Museum (8 min.)
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