Quebec: Short and Steep

Looking south down the Ottawa Valley from its Quebec shore

You can only star at the Laurentian Mountains so long before they begin a whisper campaign. It might emanate from the squawks of duck formations or a lone distant loon, but the oldest mountains in the world will persuade anyone to cross the Ottawa.

We were not alone at Harry's Haven

The rounded ridges will convince you that its deep waters are just a ribbon between the shore and its forested peaks. Beyond them lies nothing but miles of hunting preserve crossed only by unpaved roads, often barricaded by fallen trees. Quebec is the first state/provincial border I have crossed without involvement of a bridge or road.

Our whole time in Quebec, I never touched pavement, let alone a path. In those woods, we didn’t need a path. Originally we planned to paddle over in one of the cabin’s canoes. That morning, for the first time on our trip, the east wind started immediately, severely complicating our crossing plans.

I have faith in my kayaking abilities, but sitting in the front seat of a canoe while paddling against waves seemed to assure tricky navigation of rolling waves or even dumping the canoe far from either shore.

Our ride to Quebec

Before we left, we surveyed the trip’s strongest moose evidence. Along the beach ran a set of hoof prints formed but nothing other than the world’s largest ungulate. That the tracks were followed by a smaller set indicated a mother and her foal. Had we run into them on the beach, nothing would have been kosher. Instead all of us enjoyed the soft prints following the shore, knowing they had been pressed just hours earlier.

The river would not calm. Canoe passage seemed rough. Mike offered to ferry us to the stone remains of an old house. Ben told me stories about the fishing boat in question. His father had a decades-long hatred due to its unreliability.

The boat started quickly and we banged against wave after wave, with Ben on the receiving end of the waves. My ski cap ended up quite wet by the time we reached Quebec. Shallow waters where rocks congregated and a lone deadhead (an old log bobbing with only its algae-covered top showing) complicated the landing.

After we splashed onto shore, the boat motored away, I stepped into Quebec for the first time, hardly recognizable as such in this trail-free wilderness. Ben knew the basic trail, which consisted of winding through dense foliage into layers and pine and other trees.

We were in the ZEC, which is a provincial-owned conservation area. At this time of year, it’s often thick with hunters, which is why we stuck to the mountains adjacent to the river. The ZEC (there’s a French name I cannot pronounce behind those capital letters) is wild land. “Beyond Here Lies Nothing” applies all too well to this part of Quebec There are settlements further south along the Ottawa, but to the east, the mountains ripples east for one hundred miles or more.


None were present, but we walked in bear country. We ran into several piles of scat, at the most days old. Some of the piles included heavy doses of local nuts, a bear necessity this close to hibernation time. We passed any number of places that could have served as bear dens, each abandoned or temporarily unoccupied. This Soon we lost the river and came to a false summit. Ben was chasing a picture; generations past had climbed into the Laurentians, the climbed trees at its highest point to photograph the cabin.

Not a bear

As we neared the summit, climbable trees came in short supply. Branches on the tallest trees started 30 feet up, more than enough for a black bear, but neither of us. I would not entertain climbing. On flat pavement I can barely kept two feet in concert.

At the true summit, a few trees offer branches suitable for climbing. Ben worked his way up 25 feet, finally climbing to an impassable burl that circled the trunk. A series of tall pines further down the slope blocked off the cabin view, but he could see the nuclear plant and the sand pits.

The descent is always worse. You reach the peak, take in the sites, breathe the rare air, then the climb down can only bruise and disappoint. In the case of the Laurentians, it was much tougher. Taking a beeline for the river in hopes of hitting Bear Rock, we climbed and scooted around rock walls. At one turn the spongy ground gave out beneath me, sending me to the ground. Every step tested our knees and ankles.

We overshot Bear Rock by 100 yards, not bad orienteering given our lack of a compass. Traipsing along the shoreline, we came to its main landmark, Bear Rock. Easily visible directly across the Ottawa from the cabin land, our presence would be noted immediately. My red ski hat to serve as a signal for pickup.

A scary sight, but not to a bear

On occasion, Bear Rock had drawn the ZEC’s largest denizens. Usually they required coaxing. One family tradition involved boating across the river, leaving fish entrails on the rock in hopes of luring bears. Occasionally, the black bears came but usually birds pecked away the guts first.

At Bear Rock we could see activity on the opposite shore. A second boat joined the one that ferried us, and four of the men walked the beach when not fiddling with the boats. Something was obviously wrong. Soon the original boat roared to life, then began cutting through the choppy waves.

Descending to the shore, it was obvious we were going to get wet. We waded out into four feet of water, so Mike and Dennis could keep the motor running. I dumped myself over the bow, then Ben did the same and we crossed the river again. Then came the story – the motor died on Mike during his return trip. He had to paddle back to the cabin, getting a week’s worth of arm exercises in a few minutes. The motor held out for the rest of the trip back to Ontario.

 Back on the river’s Ontario bank, I could look up at the peak we hiked. I had seen a small slice of Quebec, but it hard to argue with its majestic scenery.

The rescue op in motion