DAY SIX - THURSDAY - Fishing Vacation Georgian Bay Fishing Camp

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Mike caught a trophy walleye at Dallas Rapids.  Explored the French River Village site near the outlet of the main branch.  Went to Dallas Rapids twice, morning walleye but in the evening, the bass boat guys from our camp were fishing our hole.  News travels fast in camp.  Just caught bass that evening, we inched our way back to camp as it was getting dark.

I got up around 7:00 a.m., over slept, they had been up for a while.  Coffee was ready.  The power generator was back on, the generator ran from about 6:30 a.m. to 11:30 p.m.  Mike had brought many types of rechargeable batteries, plug in nightlights.  With no power during the night, all had limited effect.  Mike was already working on two lists for next time, "what to bring"  "what not to bring."  A true engineer heart and soul.  I had taken my second shower of the week yesterday,  Hmmm good enough for another day, we're in Canada a fella shouldn't shower more than once every three days.  We ate a good breakfast, packed lunch, drank lots of coffee, organized fishing gear and headed off to Dallas Rapids.  It was cool, brisk and overcast.  We bundled up for the boat ride to the outlet of the Main Branch of the French.   Went to the same pool, trying a lower pool on the way.  Marked fish, but the action was slow.  I caught a bass by the rock.  We went to the pool where all of the action was the day before.  A couple of drifts with crawlers and Mike caught a nice walleye.  Next few drifts, and he hooked beauty, an 8 lb. Walleye.  When the fish got close to the boat, and Mike got a look, he started yelling, "holy shit, oh my god, holy shit." It was a rush.  I think every fisherman for miles around heard him.  "hear dat Jack, da walleyes must be up to Dallas Rapids."  That night when we returned to the pool, two boats were anchored in the pool…..  The sun broke through the clouds, it warmed up, the fish stopped biting.  It was a great start to a truly wonderful day along the French River Delta.   

 

We headed to the town site of the French River Village to explore and look for ancient ruins.  On the way we pulled up to 2 large boilers at the water's edge.  There were many boards scattered in the water and beach. Remains of the famous French River Alligator tugs, that had been beached and abandoned long ago.  Dad and I each took a piece of coal, left unburned from the last fire, that had heated the boilers, to generate the steam that powered the tugs for their last run to the river bank.  It must have been a sad day for the owners and crew. The operators last action was to turn the wheel, driving the tug onto the shallow rocks.  They must have climbed onto a small gas powered boat, went home, drank beers and told sailing stories into the night.  The commitment had been made, from steam to gas and diesel, now fuel had to be brought from Britt and Parry Sound.

 

 We traveled further down river to the site of the large foundations, built of local rock.  Looking at the panoramic picture of French River Village from the late 1800's, these foundations were the remains of the sawmills. Parts of the furnaces that fired the stream power to run the equipment.  There were many small artifacts, bolts, nails, a conveyer chain used to haul logs from the river up into the sawmill.  The drive shaft and saw parts are around the site.  We tried to make it to the lighthouse, but the numerous bedrock knobs separated by tag alder swales blocked us.  I suggested we get in the boat, go down river a few 1000 feet and cut up long narrow channel. We first had lunch on the bedrock outcrop, bush beans and corned beef sandwiches, to us it was a gourmet meal fit for kings. It wasn't the food as much as the dinning room and company. I looked at the old pictures of the town site.  Where we were sitting, there had once been long elevated docks and stacks of  fresh cut lumber. 100 years ago, I would have been dodging sawdust, wood chips, boards and ships, sitting at this same site.  "hey ya lazy bum, what da ell are ya doin' sittin' down dair by da water.  Now git yer ass up here and get ta work, fore I ship ya out with dis here sailing ship."  Boards and pilings with carefully drilled holes, scattered the shoreline.  Stones used to build the footings and furnaces had been meticulously, split, so the walls had a smooth face and the corners were sharp and perfectly aligned.  The buildings had been built with pride and hard work.  As if it were meant to last for ever.  Maybe the company thought the lumber would always be there.  Maybe they knew how short lived the town and mill would be, but pride in workmanship wouldn't allow slipshod products.  Today companies throw up buildings with a predetermined life of 15 years, the Wal-Mart, Kmart…… When the parking lots and buildings start needing maintenance, time to move to a green site, along the new busiest stretch of highway and build a new, bigger store with the profits. 

Several hundred people had lived at the French River Village.  Mostly mill and boom company employees.  The village strategically seated at the main entrance of a river system that provided free or nearly free transportation of raw materials from the wilderness interior to the Great Lakes. After the raw materials were processed, ships could access the docks and in turn carry the lumber to large cities of Ontario, Michigan, Illinois, Ohio and beyond.  The sole purpose of the village was to turn the raw material, pine trees, into rough cut lumber. 

 

The homes, school, boarding houses, stores, community center, and church were all owned by the company.  I wonder if anyone except the managers ever got ahead, or if at the end of the month it was pretty much a break even proposition.  Were families transient or did they stay for many years.  I suppose in a place of few jobs, any job was worth keeping.  Unlike in Michigan, when the timber was cleared, there was potential for farming, in the French River country, when the trees were gone, homesteaders were left with bedrock and bogs. 

 

From our brief exploration of the town site, it looked like there weren't even areas suited for a small vegetable garden.  When the wood was gone and the sawmills closed, there were no place to work, no places to move the homes to, no places to plant crops.  The families packed their belongings, said good-bye to their homes and sailed away to another job.  Some went to other mill town along the great lakes, some worked at the hunting and fishing lodges, other moved north into the interior, laboring at exploiting Ontario's mineral and forest resources. As the operation ground to a halt, the sounds and smoke dissipated, the quiet must have been deafening.

 

We slowly motored our way up the long narrow bay that cut into the land and paralleled the river channel. Watching for pilings and rocks, we made it without mishap.  Apparently, there had also been elevated docks either side of this narrow bay.  Ships pulled into it narrow bay and lumber was loaded from both sides.  Even though we could see the small lighthouse on the bedrock knob above, it was still a challenge to get there.  Through tag alder, over smaller bedrock ridges, hidden by trees, we finally made it to the top of the main ridge and lighthouse.  The door was open and sturdy steps lead us up to the top, providing us with spectacular views of the mouth of the French River.  I had studies the pictures from a local history book and knew the lighthouse had been a prominent feature in the middle of the town. Much to my surprise there were no buildings left at the town site.  We found stone foundations of buildings and the brick walls of one building.  As if something had swooped down from the clouds and carried off the town.  Maybe a fire had destroyed the wooden buildings, but there were no charred remains. We later found out from the camp owner, that the provincial government had hired crews of men to dismantle the buildings and haul them away. How quickly nature reclaimed the site.  There were no treasures to plunder, just a few rusty bolts.

 

Recovery of the French River was fairly rapid. The French River became a rich man's wilderness hunting and fishing retreat.  Doctors, businessmen and industrialists bought land and started camps.  Some entrepreneurs built lodes and camps to cater to the wealthy families' vacation needs.  We boated back to camp had a early supper and then went back to Dallas Rapids for an evening of walleye fishing.  Other people from GBFC, who had probably heard Mike yelling holy shit, were in our hole, catching fish.  They limited out and left, the walleye had stopped biting.  We caught some smallies, Dad caught a damn big sucker.  We found big iron rings attached to the huge rocks in the river.  These were used to anchor log booms, that caught the logs as they cam shooting through the rapids.  For weeks on end men worked the rapids with pike poles and peaveys, manhandled the logs into the booms, bound the logs into large circular rafts to be towed to the mills by alligator tugs.  Old and wet, in and out of the water all day, the job of tending the rapids and log boom must have been damn tough.  The fast water pushing heavy logs around like toothpicks,  it must have also been a very dangerous job.