Blueberry Picking in Black Bay

 by Brooke

July 24^th. (I cannot believe it is July 24^th).The Keyhole, Georgian Bay.

The Keyhole anchorage, Georgian Bay

You could say I am brown as a berry now. Although I can’t say I have seen any naturally brown berries. Today I spent two hours on the Island picking blueberries. It’s not such a simple thing, hunting the elusive blueberry.  Because of the terrain, you must watch your step rather than watch for berries. Step, climb, turn, step, stop, search. You don’t want to twist an ankle. Don’t want to step on or near a rattlesnake that might be sunning itself on a hot rock. And it is good practice to continuously scan the area for bears.  

Bear at Wilcox anchorage

Once you find a low bush of berries—you check again for a roaming bear before you crouch and bow your head. Check the water too, as one might be swimming over, island hopping—like Burt Lancaster did in The Swimmer, although that was pool hopping, and I guess Burt was looking for something other than berries (…or was he?).  There are bear droppings, there are otter droppings. The otters’ are white for the most part, composed of bleached crayfish shells and claws. The bear droppings are black lumps, speckled with some indigestible deep red berries or choke cherries.

Just so you know what bear poo looks like for safety sake

Some of the best blueberry bushes are in crevices, protected from the wind, and warmed by the heat in the rock. Other rich bushes are in hollows where the moss is thickest, sometimes you step or kneel upon a moss bed that is ten inches thick. I picture the bears liking that—walking on a lovely soft carpet. 

The wind was up from the south as I reached the cliff edges on the far side, I mostly followed the edges, almost circumnavigating the island—but it is not a round isle, it is more like a character from the Cyrillic alphabet, like Ѯ or Ԡ, with extra loops added on.

It is a contemplative practice, berry picking. Aside from the bear and snake and Poison Ivy regard, my mind wanders to many things. At one point I noticed that the tips of my fingers were purple. That brought Phil to mind, Phil in Parrsboro, Nova Scotia, where I spent three summers performing at the Ship’s Company Theatre. When the blueberry season was on in Cumberland County, Phil worked the fields. His whole fingers were purple. But he said it wasn’t due to picking the berries, it was due to the colour added to the pesticide that he was required to spray on them. 

Phil was lean and likely incredibly strong, perhaps in his late sixties—but who knows, with his lifestyle he may have just been thirty-two. He had a very gaunt, bearded face and bright blue-green eyes. As he spent months outside, his skin was the colour of iron rust, with as I said, purple fingers. Phil spent every night in the Glooscap Tavern on the highway that went up through River Hibbert. (*Anyone should get a prize if they can name the river that runs through the town of River Hibbert. I’ll put the answer at the bottom of this post...but no prize. Well, I said 'should'.)

Phil would sit alone at one of the small tables, with a small glass and a pitcher of Keith’s and when that was almost empty he’d order another pitcher. I never saw him eat.  Phil was a very quiet man, & seemed docile. He paid attention, and I think he appreciated us Ship’s Company Players because we were different and open. Phil was the only one of the locals who stood up against a small swarm of Barflies trying to pick a fight with one of the actors, Mxolisi “Welcome” Ngosi, a large, dark-black-skinned, lovely man from Soweto.  I wasn’t at the tavern that night, as I had too many lines to learn, but I heard that Welcome was surrounded and pushed around by these guys. Welcome had seen enough violence and stupidity to fill all of their lifetimes, and tried to reason with the louts. Phil came over and punched one of them, or threatened to punch them and, alongside the other theatre folk, he broke up the gang. 

Mxolisi "Welcome" Ngosi

When he’d had his fill of Keith’s, he’d hitch a ride out with anyone who was going along the road to Fox River, about a 15 minute drive west. He lived in a big house beside the road with his mother. I spent a month or so in Port Greville, which was the next settlement after Fox River. (The local pronunciation of Port Greville sounded like “Por-gurvill” or “Pork-er-ville”.)  Sometimes Phil would ask me for a lift from the Glooscap.  It was a dark drive past Diligent River then to Fox River where I’d drop him; then, just a few minutes farther along was the street lamp by the church in Porkerville. I was staying in an aluminum shack on Brook Street, which smelled toxic. It smelled like burnt carpet-glue and bug-killer and tar. The highway eventually goes on to Advocate Harbour. It's a beautiful drive.

The next summer that I saw Phil he gave me a hug. That’s how I know how strong he was.  He was used in the play that second season, to be a pallbearer in the prologue of David French’s play, Of The Fields, Lately.  

Waiting to go onstage with Phil

Well, that was a little voyage into the past.  Wandering rhythm, wandering mind: picking and sorting berries and memories. I found what I have decided to term a “pie-bush” of blueberries, tucked down on a narrow plateau on one of the cliffs facing south west. It was laden with very plump berries—so fat they looked farmed. It was probably saved from the bears because of it’s location, but it wasn’t too difficult for me to get to.

I took some photos of the bear paths around the island. The paths are handy to come across because generally they will allow you the easiest route from here to there. Unless of course you are on one of the paths between a mother and her cub. 

While I was moving around the island, through the junipers, around the boulders, and across the domes of granite, I thought of the recent “Pokemon Go”craze, that has hit Canada, and wondered what the thought processes were—certainly not contemplative—but the choreography was probably similar to what I was doing.

Pokemon searchers looking for a fad that won't die in 5 months

I find that the scratch of the juniper doesn’t trouble me anymore, nor does the stickiness of passing through a spider web, as I know the discomfort will pass—I notice it though, how easy it is to disturb a habitat. The Sandhill Cranes are croaking nearby. Five flew over a little while ago. Prehistoric flight. 

Sandhill Crane in flight

(The river that passes through River Hibbert is named the River Hibbert River.)

"There are three things all wise men fear"

"There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in a storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”

― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

Okay, Pat, I can add one to that... low water levels in Georgian Bay.

Sunday, May 26

We arrive back at Port Severn. Seven months of waiting and anticipating the spring launch and an answer to the question, “will we be able to escape the Severn River and enter Georgian Bay?” Historically low levels of water and nagging images of the water rushing out under the Highway 400 bridge (not to mention tales of  large boats coming downstream through the last lock, seeing the next 8 markers and quickly turning about) have periodically caused me sleepless nights. Oh, nasty creative imagination! I have played out every possible scenario over and over. In the best scenario we slip, unimpeded, through the channel and out into the bay and bump into a wooden chest containing hundreds of thousands of dollars. Other scenarios randomly involve being stopped dead on jagged rocks, being flung sideways in one of the eddies, losing power, having to motor backwards against the current and, of course, heart attack.

I have kept an almost daily watch on the water level graphs posted on the Canadian Hydrographic Service website and have been somewhat buoyed lately by an upward trend towards normalcy that seems to be happening. Heavy rains in the last while have helped there but questions to marina staff and others still are met with comments like “Gosh, you should be all right” and “most of the boats have made it through lately”. That latter comment is usually accompanied by no certain knowledge of the drafts of the boats that did make it. As the marina is closing early, we decide to drive over to Penetang (note: Penetang is interchangeable with Penetanguishene, a nicer sounding name, but much harder to type) where we have made arrangements for a slip for a week. Providing we make it through what I am now referring to as “The Gauntlet”.

At Hindson Marine, a large well-appointed marina at the bottom of the Penetang harbour, we notice a good-looking Grand Banks Europa and go over for a look. While there we speak to a couple with a large boat who are thinking about taking it up the Trent to Sparrow Lake someday soon. They have been in touch with ‘Cam’ one of the lock-masters at Lock 45 who tell them that the depth in ‘The Gauntlet’ is 47 inches. Well, isn’t that just exactly what we draw? Yes, it is friends.

Pretty Grand Banks Europa

There seems to be a common thread in the info that we’re getting and none of it is particularly encouraging.

We spend the night at the Kings Inn Motel in Midland. (For what it’s worth, if you’re looking for a bargain in that area, you can spend the night in a clean, well-equipped but small room there for about half of what you pay at the Best Western or Comfort Inn just up the street.) We have fish and chips at Captain Ken’s downtown (4 stars if you like f & c) and return to the motel for some restless sleeping.

Monday, May 27

Launch Day.

Despite the constant concern about the navigation to come, there is something inherently joyful in Launch Day that, temporarily at least, brings some relief to the stress of anticipating the next day.

The newly installed battery bank looks great (with its 6 x 6 volt batteries) and we have supposedly tripled our amp hours by it. The bimini that we bought last year is in place. The hull job we had done last year shines on and all looks well.

Shiny new battery bank (6 x 6 volt)

Time slows down now as we wait for the 2 pm launch. I am thinking about how we will have to navigate against the strong current into the slip that we have arranged for the night at the yard, but thankfully that is not to be the case as one of the marina staffs says we can stay right there at the slip next to the launch bay. We are grateful for this favour as maneuvering is a bit dicey when you haven’t had your hand on the wheel for the last half a year.

We don’t have much in the way of supplies so we decide to have some lunch at the Dam Grill in Port Severn. It is bright and sunny and we sit outside to best enjoy the surroundings. It is quite peaceful at the moment and a pint of Sapporo doesn’t hurt that notion.

Brooke notices that there are a couple of O.P.P. inside having lunch and we realize that the run-about docked at the restaurant (you can tie up there if you’re coming down the Trent, it’s just before you go into Lock 45) is in fact theirs. One of the two men turns out to be a conservation officer, so we question them about ‘The Gauntlet’. Here we get some of the best insight yet. On telling them our draft, the policeman says we should have no problem (there's that 'should' again) and the conservation guy backs this up. However, he says, owing to the heavy rains increasing the rate of flow from the lock, one of the green day markers is submerged and dances around just below the surface.

OPP boys spreading the 'Keep the beer for the anchorage' philosophy

We decide to get as close to ‘The Gauntlet’ by land as possible and have a look for ourselves. We had discussed the idea of launching the dinghy and taking a run down the channel, but decide against it because it is unlikely that our little 2.5 hp. motor would be able to bring us back against the current. We notice a large boat has approached the lock and it looks like he’s going to take a run at it. Perfect timing, we get to observe... We quickly drive over to a lane-way that approaches the point near ‘The Gauntlet’. There is a large, seemingly abandoned house on the property and we park in the long, uncut grass and climb over the rocks down to the bridge to watch the other boat.

When the boat, which looks to be some sort of Carver or Bayliner, perhaps 45’ in length, comes into a view, we are astounded by his rate of speed. At some points under the bridge the markers look to be only about 15 feet apart but this guy must be making 16 or 17 knots towards ‘The Gauntlet’! It’s like some sort of weird dream. High up in the plastic enshrouded fly-bridge a man in a baseball cap is bent intensely over the wheel. Behind him stands a woman, perhaps his wife, gripping a handrail. But crazier still, another man is sitting on the bow giving the captain hand signals as to which way to go!

Crazy Carver similar in size and speed to the one that ran 'The Gauntlet'

The boat swerves into the rapid flow and careens from one side of the channel to the other. Brooke, unable to help herself, calls out something like ‘slow down!’ more to herself than to them. They couldn’t possibly hear her over the roar of the engines echoing off the bridge walls. The boat swerves erratically and we realize that he doesn't see or know about the sunken, dancing green marker that right now looks more like a rock protruding occasionally from the water and sure enough the speeding boat runs to the off-channel side of it. (At this point on the waterway, red is on your starboard going downstream. Remember that, ye who venture forth.) He’s now almost out of the channel.

Whether by local knowledge or because the boat is planing high out of the water due to the high rate of speed, or just by sheer good luck, the boat speeds through ‘The Gauntlet’ successfully, spewing spray and wake everywhere. If they had hit something they would probably all be dead. Certainly the guy sitting on the bow would be. Incredible…

We catch our breath and return to the yard. I don’t know whether what we have just witnessed is making me feel better or worse. There’s no way I could ever convince myself to employ that captain’s strategy. ‘The Gauntlet’ seems even more daunting now somehow.

It is Brooke’s birthday tomorrow and amongst the logistical problems that I have had is the transportation of prezzies to the boat without giving too much away. Not to mention the cake that even now is languishing at the bottom of some bag in the steamy truck. It’s quite the challenge that we be embarking on, on Brooke’s ‘special’ day.

The weather is beginning to be a bit of an enemy now as today seems to be the last solid day and a storm front is moving in tomorrow and then rain and moderately heavy winds.

Perfect.

Tuesday, May 28

The Gauntlet…

We awaken to find that the wind has shifted to SSE. This is exactly what we didn’t want as now the water could be driven north and west out of the bay, lowering the levels in ‘The Gauntlet’. The forecast is now calling for rain later in the day and a quick peek at the Environment Canada site shows all the lakes shaded the deep red of a ‘small craft warning’. This apparently because the winds are going to reach 20 knots + for the next couple of days with gusts up to 40 knots.

What to do? If we go now we have the greatest chance of having the necessary water levels but we might get caught out on the bay in heavier wind. If we wait we may have to do so for two or more days with no guarantee that things will improve after that. It would also mean that we would have to maneuver into a slip at Starport, tricky because of current issues.

I go up and talk to Sean Hickey, the marina manager and he walks down with us to view the water for himself. Sean is of the opinion that now would be as good a time as any to leave the river, so with that encouragement, we opt to shove off.

Now that the decision has been made, I feel much better and the well-oiled machine that is the crew of the Mary Mary swings into action. We drain all the water from the tanks (we discovered yesterday we can gain over an inch of draft this way), stow birthday presents and fire up the twins. They are purring and it is a welcome and comforting sound.

We shove off, sterning out into the basin and come about, headed for the small channel from the marina to the river. Brooke is filming from the bow (we'll post the video soon) as we nose out into the main channel and turn to port. There it is… The Gauntlet. The current seems to have picked up and I’m thinking it’s a good 4  or 5 knots, which means that in order to maintain steerage, I will have to be going faster than that.

We have been warned by most to err to the starboard (red) markers and keep up speed until we pass under the bridge. There is a small fishing boat in the shallows under the bridge and Brooke notices that one of the men in it has signaled downstream to an on-coming cruiser to wait while we run through. Nice fellow.

As we approach the first markers, you can see eddies swirling about in the shallow water and for a moment we are pushed to port. That passes however and then we are in the middle of it all. I can see the submerged green marker popping and bobbing in the flow and the gap between it and the nearest red marker seems extremely narrow to me, but as we approach and the current picks up, I realize that Brooke’s theory about the current helping us as much as hindering was right. We slip along with little yaw and a moment later are out under the bridge and approaching the upward-bound cruiser, who is drifting in the channel, being slowly pushed about by the steadily increasing wind. He waves as we pass and I silently wish him well going up as his boat is larger than ours by 5 feet or so.

We are through. The only thing to worry about now is getting to Penetang before the wind picks up too much and avoiding the pitfalls of the area known as the Mary Rocks. But that passage is well-marked and in a couple of hours we are motoring into Penetang harbour and docking at the Hindson Marina.

Hindson Marina

When, after the fact, you look back on things that worry you, they generally fall into two categories. Either you were right to worry and things turn out badly or you were right to worry but things turn out okay. For us, this time, it was the latter. I think, in boating, a certain amount of stress turns into preparedness with the right approach. Having said that, I’m glad that portion of the adventure is over. On to Georgian Bay…