Carl Ahrens Writer

One of the main points in canoeing is to make up your mind as to where you will go, by what stream or lake. Another is to get a canoe, that is, providing you are not already supplied, even if you have to procure it at night, after the manner in which the bad black men gets his chickens. Having gotten your canoe and other necessaries, make up your mind to cruise the Grand River.

Regarding the necessaries I will say very little, as every bold canoeist has his own choice in the matter, but I would just suggest, don't take any canned green peas. I was unfortunate enough on one occasion to take with me one of the most determined canned green pea eaters it was ever man's misfortune to meet. He expounded his belief in green peas weeks before we started which, by the way, was last spring. He even told me in confidence that he would rather go without bread than miss taking the peas. Well, the consequence was that we had to give in to his strong green pea individuality and we took them. The last time I saw the doctor he said that his recovery was almost certain.

Another thing I would suggest is don't take any pies. You can get along very well without them and, besides, if you should happen to sit down on or step into one while getting into your canoe, you would find it very irritating, especially if it were wrapped in your clean sweater, which you had intended wearing at the end of the trip.

You are all prepared for one of the best trips it is possible for a canoeist to make, and, if you will follow me closely, I will tell you just how to make it.

First, ship your canoe and tonnage to Elora, by express, but not until you are ready to start yourself, as the usual run of railroad men aren't any too careful in handling a canoe; so if you are on hand, in case of any changes, you may often prevent it from being roughly handled.

When you arrive in Elora, camp below Little Falls for a few days and take in all the sights. Then, if you are inclined to relic hunting, the possibilities are that you may find some in the numerous holes and caves in the great rocky walls between Little and Big Falls. There are also a number of nooks and queer corners in the rocks that wall the Irwin, which runs into the Grand River just below Red Man's Cove.

After having taken in all the splendid scenery that one will find in and around Elora, get all in readiness the night before you make the start down the river, so that you may fully enjoy the beauties along its shores. Get up bright and early next morning, load and trim carefully. Take your time, as you had better not go any further than Bridgeport the first day. The rapids between the two falls, which boil and roar through what is known as "the gorge" will fascinate you, but don't try to run them. You could do it, but wouldn't be able to get ashore after the start, and would be swept over Little Falls, which, without the intervention of a miracle, would be the end of your canoeing in this world.

Between Elora and Bridgeport you will encounter seventeen or eighteen wire fences strung across the river by the Patrons of Industry, who, no doubt, would like to girdle the Earth in a like manner. Cut them down: everyone else does. No one has any right to fence in a government stream. For a short time the fences will occupy your attention, but if you have Sampson of the Brantford Canoe Club with you, wire fences will pass away. If you haven't Sampson, a solid piece of iron and an old axe will do just as well. You will enjoy the intelligent remarks from the watching Patrons on the shore, and your actions will further encourage them to vote in the next election for Jacob Sohnickelschnicker to fill the place of Lieutenant Governor at seventy cents per day, so that Government House could be utilized as a granary. When they talk to you it is the proper [illeg.] to tell them that their whiskers are ripe. This agricultural remark always seems to interest a Patron.

The first harangue you get is in Septeh [I assume this is a language]. You don't mind it very much, as the cackling of a hen is much the same as the language of [illeg.] man. The next dose from the shore will be bad English, but you will be able to understand it and will be impressed with the strong individuality and fin de siecle profanity of this class. Your third dose will be in Dutch; but as they are a slow and thoughtful class of people you would have to stay over until the next day in order to hear their remarks and have them interpreted. This you don't do, as time flies, and they can take it out on the next party behind, whom they will be sure to wait for.

You have camped for your noon meal during this time, and as the golden sun is sinking to rest, you sweep into shore at the old-fashioned Dutch village of Bridgeport, and we are met by Dad of the Bridge Hotel, a man all heart, who has been watching for you an hour or more, as you had telegraphed him your party would be on hand. What a good hearty greeting you will get. Dad and gold old Mam all smiles, good warm fire, for these nights are chilly. Your clothes are wet, but you will leave with everything dry in the morning. Mam will see to that. You may possibly be internally slightly wet with the good coffee and beer provided by Dad and Mam, but that is not the same as river wet.

Next morning after a good, hot breakfast, you shove off. On you go, all excitement, for this is to be one of your days of days. You soon pass through Breslau, another small Dutch village. Helter skelter goes a flock of geese, and everybody in the party yells. A few lazy villagers manage to move in your direction to see what the row is about, and the goose girl angrily shakes her gad at you. Soon Breslau is lost to sight. After paddling for some time you hear the distant roar of Chicopee Falls, and the shores echo back your wild canoe man's war-cry. You paddle up to within two hundred yard of the falls and land on the right shore, then walk to below the falls and see at what point is best to run them, for run them you will, that is, if you are a river man. If you are a lake canoeist it is likely you will tank. But don't, you can get through them if you keep cool. All decided, you again shove off, and are at once shot into the rapids above the falls; nearer, nearer you approach the big dip, the waters of which are lashed into one seething fury. No human voice can be heard over the awful din. Keep cool, bow sad stern. Down you go at last into the black looking trench of angry waters; halfway up the [illeg.] you rise, your stomach [illeg] it, then out into the rapids below, your canoe's half full of water and the waves splashing in at every dip.

You have been paddling hard for shore all this time and land out of the smooth water below where you get rid of a few pail fulls of the same. Perhaps your bow man, a green hand at river work, is somewhat pale and shaky about the knees and wet to the skin. In a dazed sort of way he fishes for some anti-prohibition bitters while you enjoy a few puffs of the weed and quietly chuckle, for he is the one who told you that a canoe man who could paddle a lake could get through on any river. But he is corked for the rest of the trip.

Again, you shove off, then take a whirl out of the rapids at Freeport, which will require your good attention. It is now very near noon camp and after a short paddle you land close to the petrifying springs on the right shore, have a good, hot dinner, dry your clothes, and collect a few specimens from the springs. During the rest of your day's trip you will pass by Doon, then the famous River Bend Camping Ground, held down this year by camps Triangle and KI-YI. You run a few stiff rapids, then through Belair.

Just here you encounter another wire fence: cut it down. A few more rapids, then portage over the big dam at Galt on the left side. Paddle two miles further on, then camp as the cows come home. A few rustics will linger around while you are building the fires and getting things into shape for the night. They will get you milk and butter and charge you two prices; but worry not, you get a small grunter and a chicken or two ahead.

On one of my trips I had with me one of the most remarkable men to trade and have things given him, that I ever met. He would come into camp every evening with onions, lettuce, chickens, and on one occasion a small pig: and twice on breaking camp and getting well on the start, I have seen those kindly farmers running along the shore, promising him many things more if he would only land; but his modesty always kept him from it.

You are now all ready for the night; the rapids lull you to sleep and you dream of Chicopee Falls of the day, and Glenmorrie Falls of the morrow. You are awakened early next morning by the clanging of cow bells, and get astir just in time to rescue your trousers, one leg of which is fast becoming part of a brindle calf.

Preparatory to starting, you tie down everything in the canoe, for Glenmorrie Falls and the eleven link rapids are before you. Shoving out into the drink, you are soon facing on of the very worst falls on the Grand. You must now keep close to the right shore, run them on the same side and you get a repetition of Chicopee on a larger scale, and run a big chance of a smash up, so use great care. After going over the falls you are struggling in the first rapid of the Eleven Links; you are tossed like a chip, and are hardly out of one before you have to gather your wind and energies for another, and so it goes until you have completed the chain. You will find them interesting, the last one especially I will always remember. A party of us, having left Galt late in the day, ran all but the last in the dark, then went ashore to hold counsel. We had to get through somehow, as we had taken no camping outfit and would have to stay at Paris overnight, so it was very necessary that we get through. While turning things over in our minds in a kind of fuddled way, we saw a canoe shoot out from the shore a short distance below us, a figure stood erect, paddling, and a voice hailed us, "Come on!"

We did not seem to think, but were [illeg.] in the wake [illeg.] stranger guide, the boiling waters, and the weird Indian song that floated back to our ears mingling with the booming of the rapids, and that nearly discernable just in front called to our minds the legend of the phantom guide of the Grand, and cold gray shivers chased each other down our spines. After getting through the rapids the canoe and figure ahead of us disappeared in the gloom. "Uncanny," you say. Yes, I can feel it yet. Well, we landed at Paris alongside of an old flat bottomed scow, and had just gotten our legs straightened out when we were again hailed by our guide of the last link. He turned out to be a Dutchman who had bought the scow above the rapids and was taking it home. But the singing, you say? He told us it was "Da Wacht am Rhein" and said "always singed like dat."

You have now run the Eleven Link and arrive at Paris, portage over Paris Dam on the right side, below which you strike a couple of small shake-ups , and are then in the smooth water the rest of the way. You are soon at Wilks Dams, run up close and portage on the right shore, then after a short run you go through the head gates into the old canal at Brantford, the home of Pauline Johnson and many noted river canoe-men, who will give you a warm welcome. Wash off your war paint and put up at the Kirby House, where you will be well looked after. Take this trip in reality with me next spring. Brush the cobwebs from your blades and come listen to the Song of the Rapids.