The boys make it to the St. Lawrence and head through the Thousand Islands area at night. The fact that this installment has more exclamation points than any other, might have something to do with their experience!
Leaving Campbellford on the morning of September eighth most of the forenoon was consumed getting down the series of locks between there and Trenton at the Lake Ontario end of the Trent Waterways on the Bay of Quinte. Arriving at Trenton we cruised right on down the river and into the bay in spite of the wild waving of a major portion of the populace of the town who beckoned us to come ashore. As the bow pf the Transcontinental slid out into the waters of Lake Ontario, a sullen sky that had threatened rain all morning opened up - and down came the rain - literally by the bucket full! (Note: I think this is only the third exclamation mark used in the whole series...)
We drove on through the rain and a miserable, choppy little sea that lashed the surface of the Bay of Quinte. By two o'clock in the afternoon the fog and rain became so thick that it was impossible to make out the buoys and other aids to navigation.
The bay was also full of floating drift, mainly pulp logs. Attempting to go on under such circumstances was far from pleasant, and so inviting of disaster so near to the end of our long cruise that I decided to put in at Belleville. I don't think we ever could have found that place but for the identification of location furnished us by the great bridge that spans the Bay of Quinte from near Belleville to the Prince Edward Peninsula.
The lowering of the water level of Lake Ontario has virtually ruined the small commercial harbor that Belleville once had. But, we found our way into the shallow basin through a mile of sedge grass, and eventually tied up at the yacht club anchorage.
We had scarcely landed at the Queens Hotel before the newspaper reporters found us, and forthwith spread the news to His Worship, Mayor E. C. Mickle. The Mayor had a quantity of mail for us, and virtually turned the town over to us. He seemed greatly disappointed at our inability to remain "at least two or three days in Belleville".
While the numerous courtesies and hospitalities that we encountered along the inland waterways from ocean to ocean were all thoroughly appreciated, it was often difficult to convince these kind hearted friends that we were confronted with the necessity of pushing on in the direction of Hoboken. The plea was always -"just a day", but those days had already dragged out into weeks and we were hurrying to get down the Hudson ahead of the ice.
The morning of September ninth dawned fair but windy. We shoved off from Belleville, and got hammered unmercifully all the way down the Bay of Quinte to Deseronto and Picton. In spite of the choppy seas that fought each other and pounded us from all points of the compass, we had covered 30 miles during the forenoon when we decided to go into Picton for lunch. While we had become so used to rough water that we no longer dreaded it, the experience had taught us that no matter how strong one may be physically, getting ashore for a brief rest is desirable after a few hours of pounding in a small boat.
As we lunched in a Chinese restaurant in Picton it was about a toss-up as to whether we should shorten the cruise into New York by cutting across Lake Ontario to the New York State Barge Canal, or go down the St. Lawrence. We preferred the St. Lawrence route for interest and experience, but time was a factor to be considered. Moreover, with the weather conditions we had encountered during the past few days, we were somewhat skeptical as to the advisability of tackling the run across Lake Ontario from the Canadian side to Oswego, New York. We finally agreed to let the question of routes decide itself when we got down to the two inlets between the end of Prince Edward Peninsula and the entrance to the St. Lawrence.
Leaving Picton we got so roughly handled that we thought for a time we'd have to put in at Pinyer's Cove near the tip of Prince Edward Peninsula. But when we arrived at the end of Adolphus Reach, the dreaded Upper Inlet from the main body of Lake Ontario was not as bad as we'd anticipated. The waves were higher, but less choppy than the Bay of Quinte which we were leaving behind. Forthwith, we shoved on across the inlet, slid behind Amherst Island, and hauled down the shore until we were abeam of Bath. We had decided to run into the quiet little harbor of Bath for the night. But, Bath for the night meant a bath in the boat. We got soaked to the skin running the three miles of open water between Amherst Island and the Canadian mainland where Bath's breakwater cove of a harbor is situated.
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| Source: TrentSevern Waterway |
We drove on through the rain and a miserable, choppy little sea that lashed the surface of the Bay of Quinte. By two o'clock in the afternoon the fog and rain became so thick that it was impossible to make out the buoys and other aids to navigation.
The bay was also full of floating drift, mainly pulp logs. Attempting to go on under such circumstances was far from pleasant, and so inviting of disaster so near to the end of our long cruise that I decided to put in at Belleville. I don't think we ever could have found that place but for the identification of location furnished us by the great bridge that spans the Bay of Quinte from near Belleville to the Prince Edward Peninsula.
The lowering of the water level of Lake Ontario has virtually ruined the small commercial harbor that Belleville once had. But, we found our way into the shallow basin through a mile of sedge grass, and eventually tied up at the yacht club anchorage.
We had scarcely landed at the Queens Hotel before the newspaper reporters found us, and forthwith spread the news to His Worship, Mayor E. C. Mickle. The Mayor had a quantity of mail for us, and virtually turned the town over to us. He seemed greatly disappointed at our inability to remain "at least two or three days in Belleville".
While the numerous courtesies and hospitalities that we encountered along the inland waterways from ocean to ocean were all thoroughly appreciated, it was often difficult to convince these kind hearted friends that we were confronted with the necessity of pushing on in the direction of Hoboken. The plea was always -"just a day", but those days had already dragged out into weeks and we were hurrying to get down the Hudson ahead of the ice.
The morning of September ninth dawned fair but windy. We shoved off from Belleville, and got hammered unmercifully all the way down the Bay of Quinte to Deseronto and Picton. In spite of the choppy seas that fought each other and pounded us from all points of the compass, we had covered 30 miles during the forenoon when we decided to go into Picton for lunch. While we had become so used to rough water that we no longer dreaded it, the experience had taught us that no matter how strong one may be physically, getting ashore for a brief rest is desirable after a few hours of pounding in a small boat.
As we lunched in a Chinese restaurant in Picton it was about a toss-up as to whether we should shorten the cruise into New York by cutting across Lake Ontario to the New York State Barge Canal, or go down the St. Lawrence. We preferred the St. Lawrence route for interest and experience, but time was a factor to be considered. Moreover, with the weather conditions we had encountered during the past few days, we were somewhat skeptical as to the advisability of tackling the run across Lake Ontario from the Canadian side to Oswego, New York. We finally agreed to let the question of routes decide itself when we got down to the two inlets between the end of Prince Edward Peninsula and the entrance to the St. Lawrence.
Leaving Picton we got so roughly handled that we thought for a time we'd have to put in at Pinyer's Cove near the tip of Prince Edward Peninsula. But when we arrived at the end of Adolphus Reach, the dreaded Upper Inlet from the main body of Lake Ontario was not as bad as we'd anticipated. The waves were higher, but less choppy than the Bay of Quinte which we were leaving behind. Forthwith, we shoved on across the inlet, slid behind Amherst Island, and hauled down the shore until we were abeam of Bath. We had decided to run into the quiet little harbor of Bath for the night. But, Bath for the night meant a bath in the boat. We got soaked to the skin running the three miles of open water between Amherst Island and the Canadian mainland where Bath's breakwater cove of a harbor is situated.
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I didn't know what a "reach" was. "An extended portion or stretch of land or water; a straight portion of a stream or river, as from one turn to another; ... an arm of the sea extending up into the land." |
On the morning of September tenth we were still trying to decide whether we should cross Lake Ontario or go down the St. Lawrence. But, the weather decided the question for us, just as it had previously chased us off the Canadian Soo from Detour, Michigan. The weather was clear, with a strong west wind. We'd have been a pair of dumbbells to have attempted crossing Lake Ontario that day. So, we shoved out of Bath, heading for Kingston, and down the St. Lawrence. We pulled into Kingston at noon, and long before we got there we were glad we'd decided on that route. The five mile crossing of the lower inlet between Amherst Island and Wolfe Island was a cauldron of fury, and with that much of an introduction, we had no desire to get acquainted with the main body of Lake Ontario that day. Lunching at Kingston, I sent a few telegrams, and at one o'clock that afternoon we were off down the St. Lawrence - delighted to think that the last of the Great Lakes were now behind us, and Transcontinental was still heading for Hoboken.
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| This has nothing to do with our boys in the story but was too interesting not to look into! Click here
Upon the advice of rivermen with whom I'd talked in Kingston, we held the Canadian mainland shore down the uppermost miles of the St. Lawrence, going north of Howe Island, Spectacle Shoals, and Red Horse Rock. We were sliding along beautifully around four o'clock in the afternoon through the famous Thousand Island Region when clouds that had been gathering all day closed in around us in the form of a low fog. Before I could start chart and compass navigation I became aware we were off our course. There were islands everywhere, and islands off in the distance hidden or partially hidden in the fog. To save my soul I couldn't get our position logged on the chart. Then an American flag flying from the top of a castle on a small island caught my attention. I looked for the Canadian flag, too, but it wasn't there. Mirabile dictu! I looked at the chart again, and figured we were on the backside of Grindstone Island, and in the State of New York. We had no more business being in the state of New York than a bootlegger would have in a Mohammedan Temple! Getting lost in the st. Lawrence wasn't so bad after we'd found out where we were, but before we could get back to Canada where we belonged it began to get dark, rain began puring down, and with it came the tunder and lightening.
 Our run down the St. Lawrence after darkness that evening was one of the worst nightmares of the whole ocean to ocean journey. Below Gananoque, Ontario, the current of the river became quite noticeable. For about two hours we ran with it, dodging through the Thousand Islans on the current, and by what Wilton called lightening navigation. In spite of repeatedly having sworn off night traveling, getting lost behind Grindstone Island delayed us in getting to Rockport, Ontario, where we'd intended to stop for the night. Fog, rain, total darkness, runnig down a current, and through unlighted rocks, and uncountable islands, would have been bad enough - but, added to that, was lightening and thunder that fairly rent the air. We'd cruise a little ways - going it blind, and then when a flash of lightenning enabled us to see, we'd slide around a pile of rocks - squeak between a couple islands where we didn't know whether we'd hang up or go through, and go it blind again. Every flash of lightenig would leave us staring owl-eyed, with the rain beating our faces, into the night so black that it seemed we should have been able to put pieces of it in our pockets for souvenirs. Then would come the thunder - earsplitting and terrifying, but harmless.  After we'd scraped past disaster no less than a hundred times, I crawled forward and spoke to Wilton saying: "Frank, let's head in for the first thing that looks like a port." "Show me something that looks like a port and I'm steering for it." he replied.
Just then a flash of lightening illuminated the whole river. We were going through two piles of rocks so close that I could have jumped to either one. A deafening peal of thunder, and I stared into the rain and blackness again until it seemed that I could wiggle my eyes on the end of a pole - like a lobster does. Then, off in the distance I spied a tiny cluster of lights, lights that were unquestionably on land.
As I pointed them out to Wilton, another flash of lightening lighted up the river. There was no visible obstruction between us and the tiny sparks of light on shore. We headed for them, and after an eternity of suspense during which we didn't hit anything, we spot-lighted our way in between a couple of docks.
Stepping ashore, both of us felt like we wanted to kiss the ground under our feet. I hailed a man prowling around with a lantern, asking what port we were in. His reply came back in French saying -"I'm sorry, Sir, but I do not speak English." Repeating my question in French, we discovered we were in Rockport. By lightening navigation, the grace of God, and good luck, we were on shore at the point where we'd originally planned to end that day's cruising.
Our run to Rockport that evening was thelast night cruising done on the ocean to ocean trip. That experience was the water cure. We swore off on night navigation again - and kept the vow! We swore off on night navigation again - and kept the vow! A hotel and dry bed, shabby old spider trap that it was, looked like a castle to us that night. The rain pattered down all night long, and it was still raining when we turned out in the morning. Off through the rain once more, we cruised on down the river to Brockville, seeking the shelter of an abandoned boathouse when the downpour decreased visibility until we couldn't see where we were going.
Leaving Spy to guard the boat, we went up on the docks and found the watchman - a peculiar sort of watchman. He was a war veteran who did his watching by tapping along the waterfront with a cane as substitute for sightless eyes. When I told him who we were, he said: "Oh! Yes. I've read about you two gentlemen. I've got the newspaper cutting in my pocket."
After fishing through his coat he handed me the cutting, but I could not read it. It was in English but printed in the raised print system which blind people read with their fingers. After leaving a package of American cigarettes with the bling watchman he assured us he'd watch our boat for us.
I warned him to avoid the dog. Then, Wilton and I paddled uptown to get a bite of lunch.
  
But we got more than a cup of coffee in Ogdensburg. We remained there until Monday morning, September fourteenth, while the heavens let down everythingthey had, high winds, fire and water, and peals of thunder like the noises of a naval battle.
All along the St. Lawrence people warned us not to attempt going down any of the rapids of that river. Although we had been through a few rapids in the Columbia and on the upper Missouri, everybody assured us it was suicaide for us to attempt going down any of the rapids of the St. Lawrence. We merely listened to these warnings, thanked the speakers for their kindly advice - and reserved judgement until we could see the rapids ourselves. Just a few miles below Ogdensburg the first of the rapids are encountered - the Galop Rapids. If we didn't like the looks of the rapids, we could go down the locks and canals. In any event, we were so near the end of a seemingly interminable journey that we felt reluctant about taking any chances when literally on the treshold of success.
For interesting info on the history of the canals that avoid the rapids...GO HERE :-)
Arriving at the head of the Galop Rapids on the morning of September fourteenth, we pulled into the Galop Canal, and tied up. I was somewhat chagrined to find about a dozen ships waiting their turn to get into the canal. If we had to wait until the canal was cleared it appeared we were doomed to spend the day there. I decided to have a look at the rapids, so took my glasses and walked along the shore. Presently I met a Frenchman and struck up a conversation with him. But, the Frenchman was an optimist, the first one I had met between the Columbia and the t. Lawrence. When I asked him about the rapids he said: "There'snothing to it, Monsieur! Just a few big swells, up and down - and voila! You're down." Then in English that must have been worse than my French, he said - "You make heem ee-sée. Joos look out for rock. Beeg swell no hurt you. I go down many times en leetle bateau!" He pointed out his boat to me. It was a home-made affair that looked as cranky as an old maid with hives. If the Frenchman could go down Galop Rapids with that thing, I was certain we had nothing to fear. I went back tothe boat, took another look at the waiting line of ships in front of the canal, and asked the cameraman what he thought of it. He was game. So, we shoved off. The next five minutes was more fun than we had had since we bucked the Cascades of the Columbia. Down we went in a long series of dips and plunges. We didn't seem to be going fast until we looked at the shore. It was running at a terrific clip. In about six minutes we were down, and about a day ahead of schedule we'd have set had we taken the canal.
When we came to the next rapids we never even stopped to ask advice. We merely took the deepest water indicated on our charts, and slid down the watery slopes, ignoring the canals. Arriving at the top of Long Sault Rapids, howerver, we didn't feel so venturesome.
 Lewis R. Freeman had warned me to stay out of it. I took a look at them with my glasses, and decided to go down the canal around the rapids. We locked down through the Cornwall Canal with Transcontinental tied up in the bow curve of a freighter that by dint of much squeezing was just able to get into the lock. In the second lock a freighter had gone aground when the water was let out of the lock. We were delayed until part of the cargo of grain could be removed to float the freighter out of the lock. The result of the delay was that it was dark by the time we got to the last lock at the town of Cornwall. I was for getting down for getting down the last lock that evening to be ready for an early start the next morning, but decided to remain in the canal on advice of the lockkeeper. This portion of the St. Lawrence, he informed me, is infested with rum-runnners and hijackers. "If you leave your boat down below," he said, "it will be in the liquor business tomorrow. Better tie up in the canal alongside the hotel. You'll be perfectly safe there."   Next morning, while running down the river we got an introduction to the booze runners to whom the Cornwall lockkeeper had referred. We were just about over the boundary line into the Province of Quebec when a speed boat came out and looked us over. The boat was about a fifty footer, and looked as if it could do about 40 miles per hour. After circling around us a couple times, I noticed that each of the four men on board had a big hip-cannon strpped around himself amidships. "Must be Federal men of the border patrol," I mused. Presently, the speed boat came alongside of us, and throttled down to our speed. The two boats were within twenty feet of each other and cruising abreast when one of the men called out through a megaphone -"Are you the boys who are making that ocean to ocean cruise?" "Good work!", he replied, when I answered in the affirmative, "We're for you." "Are you the Government men?" I called back through our megaphone. "Hell, no!" responded the man who'd done the talking. "We're hijackers! What kind of cigarettes do you smoke? When I said "Lucky Strikes" the man motioned for us to come closer to their boat. Desperate looking characters that they were, we had no fear of them. We cruised up until the two boats were within six feet of each other. Two packages sailed through the air, and I caught them both. Then the speed boat roared away, and was out of sight down the river in no time at all. I opened the two packages. One contained a carton of lucky Stike cigarettes. The other contained a quart of bonded Canadian whiskey. I learned later that the booze runners along the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence do a two-way traffic. They carry liquor into the United States, and haul tobacco products back into Canada. Tobacco in Canada is very high priced, being subject to a heavy tax and import duty. Inferior grades retail at from twice to three times American retail prices. So, the border smugglers who respect no law of God or man, do a profitable business running tobacco into Canada after they have unloaded a cargo of booze in the United States. I have no figures to indicate which branch of their trade is most profitable.  The 18th Amendment, which prohibited the production, distribution and sale of alcohol, easily ranks as the least popular amendment in U.S. history — and the only constitutional amendment ever to be repealed. When the 21st Amendment was ratified on this day, Dec. 5, in 1933, it ended Prohibition A few miles below the Cornwall Canal the St. Lawrence widens out into Lake St. Francis, and while running the 25 mile length of that great expanse of water we suffered the worst beating the Transcontinental had received since we cruised up the east side of Lake Michigan from Manistee to Frankfort. The wind had risen to a furious gale that was sweeping straight up the length of the lake whipping the surface into a series of furrows that seemed to be about fifteen feet deep and ten feet apart. It was the most peculiar sort of sea I ever looked at - and a villainous thing to be pounding into with a small boat. The tremendous furrows that went sweeping up the lake were as uniform as if they had been cut out with a steam shovel in a field on land. But, the way we dived down into the hollows, labored up the slopes, and porpoised through the curling crests of solid water and spray was anything but a tonic for shaky nerves. We were soon drenched to the skin, bailing water, and wondering just how long we'd be able to stay afloat. There were many places along the lake where we could have run in if necessary, but we preferred to keep going as long as our motor power didn't drown. The greater part of the forenoon was consumed hammering through the irate waters of Lake St. Francis to Coteau Landing, and the entrance of the Soulanges Canal. Hungry, wet, cold, and feeling somewhat worse for wear, we locked into the canal and ate in our lunch in the boat. Meanwhile the canal attendants who had recognized us, plied us with questions, and wanted to know all about our cruise. The conversation, however, was somewhat hampered due to the fact that it compelled the French-Canadians to tolerate my French.  After changing to dry clothes cruising down the canal became a pleasure. It was a tremendous relief from bucking through the mountainous waves of Lake St. Francis. By this time the wind was blowing so violently that even the canal was full of choppy little waves, and occasionally we encountered such terrific puffs that it was actually difficult to stand erect in our boat. We were glad to be in the canal, even though the wind that was dead against us slowed our speed so the rest of the afternoon was consumed in making the run of 21 miles to Cascades Point where the canal again joins the St. Lawrence. Half an hour before we reached the last lock, and well toward sundown, rain began pouring down again. We were then wearing the last of our dry clothing, and with no desire to get soaked again, and the prospect of Lake St. Louis just ahead, Jules Perron's Hotel de Pointe Cascades looked thoroughly inviting. Monsieur Perron couldn't speak a word of English, nor could we find anyone else in Cascades Point who did. But, he did have a dandy little hotel, well furnished, and spotlessly clean. Observing us shivering in front of the stove in the lobby the hotel keeper asked me if I'd ever drunk any "whiskey blanc". I told him all I knew of whiskey blanc is what I read of it in William Henry Drummond's poems. "Ah!, replied the Frenchman. "You must get acquainted with the national drink of Ke-beck!" Forth with he broke out a demijohn of colorless liquid, and poured out two generous drinks for us. It wasn't half bad, and it WAS hot. It set our blood to moving after having apparently ceased to circulate hours before back in Lake Francis. After that, a bath apiece from the tub tap marked "CHAUD", and we began to come to life again. The water faucet marked "FROID" didn't interest us a bit. That evening I attempted to get a phone call through to friends in Montreal, but only to be informed the lines were out of commision. A few minutes later a wild-eyed Frenchman came into the hotel lobby sputtering French like a rocket does fire. He brought the news that Montreal had been swept by a torpedo at the hour when Wilton and I had been in the middle of Lake St. Francis. (Is this a typo? Should it be "tornado"? I can find no news of tornados or torpedos hitting Montreal in September 1924. Very annoying! Anyone know anything about this?)One man had been killed, a number were injured, and the property damage was enormous. Interpreting the message to Wilton, his only comment was - "I can't believe it." High wind, and a deluge of rain, tore at Cascades Point Hotel all that night, and all the following day. We were anxious to push on to Montreal, but Monsieur Perron assured us it was suicaide for us to attempt to cross Lake St. Louis in such weather. After our experience in Lake St. Francis, we could believe it - so, like Enoch Arden, when he was marooned, our message was - WAIT. The lakes that comprise much of the mileage of the St. Lawrence River are all alike. The famous poem, "On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante" Got scar't an' run below— For de win' she blow lak hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre Wan arpent from de shore."is as typical of any St. Lawrence Lake as of Lake Saint Peter. The poem is too long, and too well known for me to quote it all, but we could see the logic in the poet's advice when he wrote the last verse. "Now all good wood scow sailor man Tak' warning by dat storm An' go an' marry some nice French girl An' leev on wan beeg farm. De win' can blow lak hurricane An' s'pose she blow some more, You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre So long you stay on shore." The above from: The Wreck Of The "Julie Plante": A Legend Of Lac St. Pierre - by William Henry Drummond
The morning of September seventeenth dawned gray, sullen, and misty, but practically windless.We had ceased to be particular about our traveling weather, so we got an earlu start, went down the last lock in the Soulanges Canal, and headed out into the broad expanse of Lake St. Louis. Although there was virtually n wind, the lake was quite choppy, apparently writing from the lashing it had received for the the past 48 hours. Pushing on through the lake throughout the forenoon, we picked our wasy from buoy to buoy, crossed the wide inlet that forms the mouth of the Ottawa River, and at noon landed at La Chine. The buoys took us straight into the upper end of the Chine Canal. We would have enjoyed going down the La Chine Rapids, but upon advice of experienced rivermen decided not to take the chance, although we might reasonably expect to run the rapids without mishap and at a saving of several hours" time getting into Montreal.
At Montreal we would have the record for crossing North America by water virtually in our pockets, because at that point we would have completed the run from a Pacific seaport to an Atlantic seaport. If we smashed up between Montreal and New York City we could still claim success in having crossed the continent by water - the first time the job had ever been done. It was this consideration more than any other that caused me to be chillyfooted at attempting the La Chine Rapids. I could see no sense in taking the risk when virtually on the threshold of success. Had the La Chine Rapids been in the Columbia River it would have been altogether different.
 
At La Chine I succeeded in getting a telephone call through to my friend, J. M. Gibbon, Publicity Manager for the Canadian Pacific Railways, and thus made arrangements to land in Montreal at the Canadian Pacific Steamship Docks.
Picture to the right
is of Montreal Harbor,
so the docks are there
somewhere.
After lunching in La Chine, we shoved off down the canal, and spent most of the day locking down with lake freighters into the city. At four-thirty we passed out of the last lock onto a direct water level to the Atlantic Ocean, put-putted down the river, and into the Canadian Pacific Docks. There we tied up next to the trans-Atlantic liner Montcalm, which was pulling out for Liverpool the following morning. Scaling the rope ladder up the sixty foot dock from the landing that had been prepared for us, we found a group of newspaper reporters, photographers, and friends from the Canadian Pacific organization, waiting for us.
 The group included one reporter from La Presse who spoke perfectly good English. Then, a taxi-cab whisked us off to the Mount Royal Hotel, where hot baths, food, and beds seemed the greatest luxury that the biggest city in Canada could provide for us. Next morning Wilton came bursting into my room with a newspaper in his hand, and begging me to translate what the newspaper reporters had written about us. The story was all over the front page of La Presse, with pictures of ourselves and boat. A three column head-line in 48-point type read: "TRAVERSE EN YACHT DU CONTINENT, DE L'OCEAN PACIFIQUE A MONTREAL."
The story which followed was one of the most carefully written and accurate reports of the cruise that I clipped out of thousands of newspapers of the journey that eventually went into my scrap book.
On down the St. Lawrence from Montreal on the afternoon of September nineteenth, we were boosted along by the swift current and made fast time. The weather was cloudy and rain threatening, but at the rate of speed at which we were traveling downstream, we hoped to get to Sorel at the mouth of the Richelieu River before nightfall. Navigating this part of the St. Lawrence was easy indeed, forin a roomy stream freed from all obstructions, deep enough to float ocean vessels, and marked out with a fence of buoys - there was nothing to do but keep going and enjoy the scenery along the shores.
Part of Quebec - Ke-beck, the French-Canadians pronounce it - is as picturesque and foreign to an American as any piece of the old world would be if set down upon this continent. It is marvelous to me how these people have defied even the automobile running over their country like a plague of jackrabbits, to strip them of their native customs and their language. If there is any one thing that travelers along the waterways cannot overlook it is the cathedrals. No matter what the financial status of the community may be, every town and village has a magnificent cathedral towering above everything else on the landscape. Cruising along the rivers the cathedral spires always loom into view long before anything else is visible to indicate a town. Moreover, if there is a cathedral on one side of the river, there is invariably a similar structure on the opposite shore. Multiplicity of cathedrals seems to be preferred above such mundane utilities as bridges or ferry boats.
Darkness caught us some miles above Sorel, and a deluge relieved us of our desire to reach the mouth of the Richlelieu River that day. We were sworn off night navigation anyway. So, when some cathedral towers indicated a town on the north shore of the river, we headed for it and landed. The town was Lanoraie. I boasted a fine concrete dock back of which we found a safe mooring for Transcontinental. The omnipresent small boy, who kept up an incessant jabber in French, directed us to L'Hotel de L'Universe, and begged to carry my handbag - for 25 "centimes". He collected the money.
Arriving at the hotel we shook the water off ourselves like a couple of wet dogs, extricated Spy from a dog fight - probably precipitated by his inability to understand the language of the French-Canadian dogs - and made the customary dicker with the landlady. In a few minutes we were in clean dry clothes, enjoying one of the best meals we ever got in the French portion of Canada. That night was "wan dark night on Lak St. Pierre, an' de win' she blow, blow, blow." It poured down rain all night, and next morning it was raining and blowing. It was too cold, wet, and windy to attempt traveling, so we loitered about the little hotel until noon. About that time a fine looking Frenchman came in and jabbered with the landlady. I gathered enough of the conversation to understand that he was inquiring about stages to Berthier and ferry boat connections to Sorel. When I heard that it was impossible to get to Sorel by that method until until late evening, I spoke to the man and informed him we were going to Sorel with our boat if we got a little favorable weather, and we'd be glad to take him there if he cared to join us. After wracking my vocabulary, and all but wrenching my tongue to express this complicated idea in French, the man said in perfect English: "I'd be delighted. Seymour is my name - Jacques Seymour. Sorel is my home." We shook hands and adjourned to the dining room.
Getting acquainted with Monsieur Seymour was one of the most pleasant of our experiences in Quebec. He's a well educated fellow, owner of a fleet of commercial boats on the St. Lawrence, and a natural comedian. We lunched with him and about midafternoon the weather broke sufficiently to let us get away to Sorel. The run down the river required only an hour, but we were no sooner under way before the rain began coming down again. Pulling in at Sorel, Monsieur Seymour as a member of the Club Nautique de Sorel, steered us into the yacht basin below the mouth of the Richelieu, and opened a vacant slip in his boathouse for us to leave Transcontinental.
Sorel is a beautiful little town, and has a splendid hotel. We spent a pleasant evening with our new found friend at the club, got acquainted with about half the town, and ceased to worry about the howling wind and driving rain.
  The morning of September twenty-first dawned clear and cold,  There is a slight current in the Richelieu, but it is probably not more than two miles an hour in the swiftest parts of the navigable channels. Except for the weather which was getting uncomfortably cold, our journey up that stream from the St. Lawrence to Lake Champlain was pleasant indeed. It was also through one of the most picturesque sections of Quebec, where we scarcely heard a word of English until we crossed over the international boundary near Rouses Point, N. Y. The current in the river, high winds, and frequent showers of rain delayed us some, as did also the locks at St. Ours, and in the Chambly Canal. At St. Jean, we were compelled to invest in heavy woolen underclothing and other warm garments to protect ourselves from the rapid encroachment of winter weather. Even then our semi-tropical constitutions suffered from the cold. There was heavy frost every night on the Richelieu, and on two mornigs there were little dagger blades of ice around Transcontinental's hull as we prepared to shove off.  After stops overnight at San Antoine, Beloeil, and St. Jean, we pulled out on the morning of September twent-fourth on the last lap up the Richelieu, a run of 25 miles into Lake Champlain to Rouses Point. It was a windy day, as most days seem to be in this region at that time of year, and we began to catch our punishment about the time the international boundary slid under our keel.   
(To be continued)
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Below are some extra postcard I found that I like enough to share with you.
The first is from the town of Sorel, from the year Hoag and Wilton stopped there.
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