1926 - Champion Evinrude Sport Twin

This ad was running in the May issue of Motor Boating with Part 5 of the Across the Continent by Motor Boat (with Evinrude Big Twins) story.

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1925 - Part 5 - Across the Continent by Motor Boat (with Evinrude Big Twins)

Traveling through Canada in this episode, the boys have a great time.

You might want to view this Canadian Geographic slideshow of old photos of the building of the Trent-Severn Waterways!  It will make you appreciate the magnitude of the project, which started in 1837.

The Trent Waterways are sometimes spoken of as The Trent Canal, and the Trent Valley Canal.  The Canadians prefer Trent waterways, and I agree with them, because that name is the most descriptive.  The route is 250 miles in length, but only 32 miles of it is excavated canal prism.  It is in reality a waterway for small craft plying between Georgian Bay and Lake Ontario directly across the Province of Ontario, and is a chain of lakes and rivers, improved for navigation and hydro-electric development.  The part of it which could be called Canal is the scanty mileage where it was necessary to dig ditches to connect the various lakes and rivers.  The route embraces a magnificent variety of water levels over which shipping is carried through a total of 46 locks.  Of these locks, two are hydraulic lift locks, two are marine railways, and the remainder - ordinary float locks.  

So much descriptive matter has been written and published concerning the Trent Waterways that it seems unnecessary to go into a lengthy description of them here.   I will say, however, that the waterway is a monumental piece of work, and one from which other countries may gain valuable knowledge.  Considering the population of Canada, and the amount of money that the Dominion Government had available for carrying out the project, it is all the more commendable.  Prior to our arrival in the Trent Waterways we had been through a few locks and canals in the United States, and one would have to be blind to refrain from drawing comparisons.  Without exception the construction work of our own waterways in the states had been cheap, slipshod and temporary - locks made of wood, or of concrete containing so much sand and so little cement that there was nothing permanent about them. 

 In the Trent Waterways, in bold contrast to such works as seen in our own country, we found locks and other construction work built of solid masonry or honest concrete which will still be in service when the great-grandchildren of the men who did the work will have gone to the dust from which the Maker created them.  A cruise through the Trent Waterways is an eye-opener to any bigoted American who carries the delusion that only in his own country is anything worth while ever done.  

CLICK MAP TO VIEW LARGER IMAGE

On September first, the day that Transcontinental cruised up the Severn River, which forms the last few miles of the extreme western end of the Trent Waterways, the wind blew a howling gale.  The weather was fair, but the atmosphere was thick with smoke from nearby forest fires fanned to fury by high winds.  Most parts of the Severn River are so narrow that a rock could be hurled ashore almost anywhere.  But, there are a few wide places where the impounding of the river for hydro-electric development and the improvement of navigation has spread the water through surrounding lowlands.  One of the first of these places we encountered was Gloucester Pool, quite a sizable lake, where the wind was sweeping down the length of it to kick up one of those nasty, choppy, little seas, for which these small inland bodies of fresh water are infamous.  We got soaked to the skin with flying spray before we ran the length of Gloucester Pool, and were glad when we reached the warm sunshine and modified breeze of the narrow reaches of the river again.  The current in this portion of the Severn River is very moderate - probably not more than one mile per hour on the average

But, there are a few places where the river flows between narrow, rocky walls that the current becomes quite noticeable.  One of the most vigorous of these places is encountered just below the first marine railway at Big Chute, 8 miles above Port Severn.  Studying the chart for this section, I was somewhat perturbed by the narrowing down of the channel at that point, and a notation on the chart reading: "swift current - proceed cautiously, and steer close to log boom on the right bank."

Arriving at the narrows, however, I discovered I'd been crossing a bridge that really didn't exist.  The dreaded rapid was only a riffle of gently sloping water, up which the Transcontinental walked as if she'd merely encountered a little heavy going.  With a shock-breaking boom of logs strung down both banks to keep boats off the rocks, losing steering way, or even a motor failure didn't appear to be thing much to be dreaded.  After we were up the riffle, I looked at the chart again and chuckled to myself of the careful forethought and caution of the Canadians.  We'd come through  hundreds of rapids that were a hundred times more dangerous than this one - , and, nobody had taken the trouble to chart a warning of danger, or string log booms to protect the paint and planking of our battered little cruiser.

Our cruise through the Trent Waterways will always be remembered as one of the most pleasant portions of the entire ocean-to-ocean run across North America.  There were several reasons for this. Quiet water for small boat cruising, and close-up scenery were the greatest factors toward making the route enjoyable for us.  Next to that the wonderful courtesy, politeness, and hospitality of the Canadians; and the excellent management of the canal system contributed substantially to our pleasure of cruising in those waters.  The importance of close-up scenery in easily navigable waters was more forcibly impressed upon me in the Trent Waterways than elsewhere on the 5280 mile cruise.  

Motor boatmen contemplating a cruise would do well to consider this subject because it is to boating pleasures precisely what good scenery and good roads are to land motoring.  We had cruised through some of the most magnificent country in all of America when we came up the Columbia River from the Pacific Ocean, but in that tremendous river all scenic enjoyment had to be derived at long range.  Even then the difficulties of navigation were such that we were usually compelled to give far more attention to navigating than to scenery and other pleasures of the journey.  In the Missouri River we had cruised for 2284 miles through a tremendous variety of scenery, but most of the time and attention had been occupied by the necessity of keeping eyes glued to upon the river - avoiding snags, sand bars, falling cut banks, trying to follow the current and remain afloat.  In the Great Lakes our vistas from day to day had been largely sky and water, or dodging huge rooster tales of water that threatened to pound Transcontinental into Davy Jones's locker.

In the Trent waterways, however, everything was different.  We found ourselves cruising though quiet inland waters, usually within a stone's throw of the shores - shores that were either rugged wilderness of beautiful parks in the vicinity of populated areas.  The problems of navigation were so simplified by our large scale charts, and buoyed channels, that keeping our correct course became one of our least considerations.  There was so little of anything to do  but cruise and enjoy ourselves.  The numerous locks automatically took care of any attempt on our part to make mileage that might be fatiguing.  

Additional pleasure was ours in the Trent Waterways by reason of the receptions we got everywhere, and the interest of every person along the route in our attempt to get across the continent by boat.  During the several weeks that we cruised in Canada the people made us feel almost as if we were guests of the Dominion.  I met only one blubberhead who ventured the conventional British jeer at Americans -"Who won the war?"  

This is a small portion of a large illustrated folding stationary sheet.  CLICK HERE to view all.
Double click on images there to get them enlarged so you can see the amazing detail.

Before I could reply to suggest that he ask the Kaiser, the keeper of the lock where we had stopped, swung his boot in the direction of the fellow's rear, and grabbed him by the nape of the neck. The lockkeeper was a powerful chap, and held his victim as if he had been a rabbit. "I've a mind to throw you in the canal, Sir," he exclaimed. "But I shall not do that. You're a disgrace to your King, and I'll eject you from the King's property." With that he led the man to the gate that enclosed the top of the lock structure, pushed him through, and closed the gate. Returning to me the lockkeeper apologized for the fellow's conduct, and said: "Pay no attention to such blighters. We've a few of them - more's the pity."

Meanwhile I could scarcely restrain myself from laughter at the lockkeeper's polite language while disposing of the annoyer.  A bit of profanity would have been justifyed, but this British-Canadian  indulged in none of it.  A little later he said to me: "I observe from your American Legion pin that you've been a soldier too.  You did your part, and that's all any of us can do.  I was in the trenches for four years myself, and we were all jolly glad when the Yanks got there."

World War I volunteers, Fergus Fall, Minnesota

The trip over the marine railway at Big Chute gave us an opportunity to inspect the hull of the Transcontinental, the first since we'd had the boat out of water at Milwaukee.  We were delighted that scarcely a flake of paint had been knocked off.  The inspection revealed, however, that we had lost two screws that held the half round brass shoe to the bottom of our keel.  While I was replacing these the railway operator told me that yachtsmen very frequently took advantage of the dry docking facilities offered by the two marine railways for making under water repairs to their boats. 

 
After making the remainder of the run up the Severn River, through Sparrow Lake, and up the 42-ft. lock below Washago, we reached the level of Lake Couchiching, which is also on the same level as Lake Simcoe.

Couchiching is an Indian word meaning "many winds", and we found Lake Couchiching to be just that.  The gale that had swept the country all morning seemed to be coming from every direction and in violent puffs when we passed out of the Washago Canal into the lake.

Consequently the lake was terrifically rough, and we were badly handled before we finished the ten mile run through this wide stretch of open water into Orillia.  There were several hours of daylight left when we docked at Orillia, but with Lake Simcoe just ahead, we knew we could not attempt to use them.  Lake Simcoe is nearly 30 miles long and 15 miles wide.  The view into it from the residential section of Orillia is much the same as looking out on Lake Michigan from Chicago.

This was too cool not to use...1940ish.

Our route was directly across it to the mouth of the Gambridge Canal just nort of Beaverton, and for us there was no crossing Lake Simcoe that day.  Orillia, however, was a good place to end the day's cruising.  It is a beautiful little city of about 10,000 population, and one of  the best towns on the Trent Waterways in that part of Ontario.  My desire to stop there was also augmented by a letter I carried in my portfolio, which had been handed to me by the Chief of Police of Astoria, Oregon, as we were shoving off up the Columbia on May twentieth.  The letter was from the Mayor of Orillia, who hearing of our trip, mailed in care of the Chief of Police of Astoria, extending us an invitation to accept the hospitality of the city upon our arrival in that part of Ontario.

Landing at the local boat club at the head of Lake Couchiching, we soon discovered that the Mayor had been notified by telephone almost as soon as our boat was identified.  Every club, dock, and marine service station had been posted to watch for us, and the watch had been maintained for weeks.

 In a very few minutes the Mayor and a delegation of Orillia's leading citizens were on hand with several automobiles, and we were off to see the town.  If there is anything in Orillia we didn't see, it must have been built since September second.

 One of the things there that interested me more than anything else is the magnificent shaft in the public park that the citizens have erected to the memory of Champlain and the hardy pioneers who paved the way for Canada today.  It seemed significant to me that the Canadians have time, thought and money for such things, while American explorers such as Lewis and Clark have received scant eulogy other than a few towns and counties to perpetuate their names.  

Orillia is the site of the Ontario Provincial Home for the Feeble Minded Persons, as it is politely termed;  and the Mayor and citizens insisted upon showing us this institution.

 While the institution is undeniably a model of its kind, a trip through it is somewhat depressing. 


Wilton, whose religious tendencies are to see only the good and pleasant things of human life, seemed deeply impressed, as well as depressed, by the sights of the place.  In summarizing his ideas to me while sitting around the hotel that evening he said: "Johnny, half the world are nuts, and the rest are squirrels.  The question is - just how much of a nut, or a squirrel does one have to be to be eligible for residence in that place up on the hill - and, who is to judge?"

Getting under way the next morning we found the sky heavily overcast, rain threatening, but scarcely a breath of wind blowing. We could not have picked a more ideal morning for getting across Lake Simcoe. Rounding the bend in the narrow strait that connects Lake Simcoe and Lake Couchiching, we found the huge lake, often called the Tiger of the Trent, as placid and glassy as a plate of soup.  The visibility was so low that land appeared only on the north and west shores of the lake.  We took our course from the charts, checked it with our compass, and shoved off into the expanse of sky and water.  After cruising for an hour. the land had disappeared on all horizons except for a couple small peninsulas that were faintly visible jutting out from the north shore.  Another hour of cruising we had picked up Thorah Island near the east shore, and a dim outline of housetops and smokestacks in the town of Beaverton, which is built up onto high ground on the mainland beyond.  About abeam of Thorah Island we located the first buoy marking the route to the Gamebridge Canal, and followed the buoys on in.  

CLICK HERE for a close up map of the entrance to the canal.

About the time we got into the canal the wind began to blow, and rain coming down with it.  We soon realized we'd been lucky to get across Lake Simcoe, for an hour after we got into the canal above Gamebridge the crossing could not have been attempted.  Moreover, had the storm caught us in the middle of the lake, we'd undoubtably have been compelled to run for the shelter of the nearest cove.  Before reaching Lake Simcoe I had talked with  a number of motor boatmen who were neither crepe hangers nor alarmists, and all of them warned us against taking any chances with Simcoe in heavy weather.  After getting into the canalized portion of the waterway beyond Lake Simcoe, we didn't care much what the weather did.  We were so used to rain and to being wet that rain was a matter of small concern.  In the sheltered waters the worst the wind could do was to retard our speed a little, or boost us along depending upon which way the wind happened to blow and meanderings of the waterways.

The objective of cruising that day was Fenelon Falls, and the residence of J. W. Shelly on Sturgeon Point in Sturgeon Lake, about six miles beyond Fenelon Falls.  This was a run of approximately 50 miles from Orillia, and with the umber of locks and bad weather, was a husky days mileage.  Prior to our actual arrival at Fenelon Falls, I had talked to Mr. Shelly by telephone, and been with him in person for about five minutes. It was the day after the story broke in the Los Angeles newspapers announcing our intention to attempt the cruise, that Mr. Shelly phoned me. He told me he desired to get acquainted, because for a number of years he had made the practice of spending his winters in California and his summers at his home on Sturgeon Point in Ontario.  Later he called at my office in Los Angeles, and extended an invitation to visit him at his summer home, because, as he stated it -"You've got to come right past my door."  He marked the position of his Sturgeon Point home on our charts of the Trent waterways and gave me photographs for identification of the house and his boat landing.  

I had, of course, kept in touch with him on the cruise from Oregon to Ontario, so I was not greatly surprised when we arrived at the Kirkfield Lift Lock, and the lockkeeper asked me to call a certain phone number at Fenelon Falls.  After putting in the phone call it was only a minute or two before I had Mr. Shelly on the wire.  He said he'd be waiting for us at Fenelon Falls, and that our hot baths and the chicken dinner would be ready at his house when we got there.  The destination was still 26 miles away through the downpour of rain, but an objective well worth driving for.

As an example of the kindness and hospitality we encountered in Canada, Mr. Tough, the keeper of the Kirkfield Lift Lock, called his wife out to have a look at our boat as he recognized the outfit.  "Mary, have you ever heard of this boat?" he asked, as his wife peered down at our tiny craft tied up in the lowered lock chamber.  "For sure, I have," she replied in a delightful Canadian accent.  "These are the gentlemen who have come all the way from the Pacific Ocean."  The usual barrage of questions followed.  Finally Mrs. Tough ventured to ask if we'd had any lunch.  It was one-thirty in the afternoon and we'd had no lunch due to the fact there had been no place to get any, and we'd come off from Orillia in too much of a hurry to have one prepared.  When the lockkeeper's wife gained this information, nothing would satisfy her but that we should come right into the house - and she'd, "Get us a bite to eat while Transcontinental was being put over the lift lick."  The "bite to eat" as she called it, turned out to be a splendid home-cook meal, the first of the sort we had enjoyed in some days.  And yet, I've heard Americans say that Canadians are cold and inhospitable.  Wilton and I found them to be everything but that.

On the rest of the afternoon, on through the rain, up onto the level of Balsam Lake, we cruised on the highest water level of the Trent waterways - 845.5 feet above sea level, 267.5 feet above Lake Huron, and 602 feet above Lake Ontario.  At Rosedale, in the water connection between Balsam and Cameron Lakes we began going down - down the veritable stairway of locks between Balsam Lake and the Bay of Quinte on Lake Ontario.  Coming across Cameron Lake in a mist of rain and with the last fading rays of daylight, my glasses picked out a figure waving like a human semaphore from the first bridge above the Fenelon Falls locks.  A little later I recognized the figure as J. W. Shelly. 

But, he wasn't the only one.  The shores, bridges, and locks were thronged with people, the combined spectators of Fenelon Falls, Lindsay and Bobcaygeon, having gathered there to greet us.  Our hands were actually beginning to ache from the hearty handshakes when the lowering water in the first lock brought us relief by taking us down beyond the reach of the longest arms.  

Mr. Shelly's boat, a 38-ft. mass of polished mahogany and brass, was tied up in charge of his boatman below the Fenelon Falls Locks.  We immediately cruised on with Transcontinental because we knew Mr. Shelly wouldn't be long overtaking us.  Presently his speedy packet shot alongside of us, and attempted to throttle down to our speed.  But, it couldn't be done.  "Throw us a line, boys," our host called out.  "We'll put a little more speed on you.  We mustn't let those chickens get cold."  A tow of five miles didn't cut much of a figure in a cruise of more than 5,000 miles.  Moreover, with a home-cooked chicken dinner almost within smelling distance, we felt the end justified the means.  We threw a line aboard Mr. Shelly's boat, and Transcontinental nearly climbed out of the lake trying to stay astern of the faster craft.  In almost less time than it takes to tell it we were down to Sturgeon Point, and tied up in Shelly's boathouse.  A hot bath each, a change of clothes, and a dinner such as Americans associate with Thanksgiving Day or Christmas, and Wilton and I were further convinced hat all of God's people don't live in the United States.

While Mr. and Mrs. Shelly assured us they'd be delighted to have us remain with them a week or more, the acceptance of such hospitality could not be considered for a moment if we were to get to New York ahead of some disagreeable cruising weather.  A rest among such surroundings would have been thoroughly enjoyable, but traveling as we were on a much belated schedule, it was out of the question.  When the following day dawned with cold rain and high wind we consented to remaining over another day hoping to see more favorable weather for traveling, and to avail ourselves of the invitation of His Worship, Mayor Graham, of Lindsay, to visit his city. So, we cruised across Sturgeon Lake to Lindsay about eleven o'clock that morning, and were guests of the Mayor, and leading citizens, while being shown the town, and later at the Kiwanis  Club luncheon.  At the luncheon we sang "God Save the King" with the rest of them - the tune being familiar inasmuch as Americans borrowed it from the Englishman.

After the luncheon, Frank and I were called upon to give a dissertation concerning our cruise, and our impressions of Canada.  After describing the cruise somewhat in detail, and with the aid of a huge map on the wall, I got down to my impressions of Canada.  Incidentally, I learned something about British customs during speeches, which has since seemed highly humorous.  I had told these gentlemen (those last two words are typically Canadian), that my impressions of their country were altogether favorable. 

"I have come up here from the states,: I said, "under a flag which is foreign to me.  But I find the same language, much the same customs, and about the same sort of people as we know in the United States.  If there is any great difference between the people of the two nations, I would say that Canadians have time to be courteous and polite."  At this statement there was a wild commotion among my audience, and exclamations of  "Hear! Hear! Hear!" from all quarters of the house. 

 This practice of shouting "Hear! Hear! Hear!" at a speaker was a new experience for me, and I wondered what I had said that could have offended anyone  The situation was decidedly embarrassing for a second or two, or until my interest in foreign languages came to my rescue.  I recalled in Mexico I had listened to a speech by a Presidential candidate, in Spanish, of course, and in the midst of his talk there had been cries of "Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!" as an expression of approval.  So I surmised that "Hear" in Canadian English had the same meaning as "A-men" as it is used in certain church congregations.  With this line of reasoning I decided to beard the lion in his den, and determine if my conclusion might be right or wrong.  I continued speaking - saying: "Gentlemen, I'm glad to have the opportunity to get better acquainted with Canada and Canadians.  I believe that we as Americans, and you as Canadians, have only advantages to gain by knowing each other better.  Not that I believe or national understanding is faulty, but because I believe it is better than between than between any other two nations on the face of the earth today.  The very fact we have lived as neighbors for more than a hundred years without a fort or a soldier on th the international boundary, and without a battleship on the Great Lakes is sufficient proof of that.  Meanwhile the nations of Europe have been torn apart by war after war - what a lesson for the rest of the world!"

Another uproarious cry of "Hear! Hear! Hear!" and I'd proved the meaning of the expression.  "Just one more word, gentlemen," I concluded.  "I'm going to take delight in going back in going back to the United States and telling people that Canada is a law abiding nation of God-fearing men and women.  I'll preach that verbally and I'll spread that doctrine by the power of the pen I command as a contributor to the public press.  I'm going to do everything in my power to encourage Americans to travel in Canada, and Canadians to travel in the United States.  By knowing each other these two nations will continue to live together in peace."  Another chorus of "Hear! Hear! Hears!", and I'd said my say, and sat down.  Wilton followed me on the floor and for twenty minutes kept the the club in an uproar of laughter telling intimate little details of our journey in his own inimitable way, and in the language of the newspaper editorial office and the motion picture studio.

Note:  I began wondering what were the feelings between Canada and the US after reading all of Hoag's comments.  Here is a nice page that puts things in perspective.  In short, things were fine in 1924 between the countries.                     In fact, they were more relaxed than ever, as WW I helped the countries bond as they fought together against a common enemy.  

No clue where this is in the story.  The only one I can find that looks like it is on Chemong Lake.

Leaving Mr. Shelly's home on Sturgeon Lake on the morning of September fourth, Mrs. Shelly prepared s a huge box of lunch, and we shoved off down Sturgeon Lake hoping to make Peterborough that evening.  The distace of 60 miles was not beyond us for a day's cruisig, but it seemed doubtful with a total of ten locks to be passed.While we had found the King's Servants along the Trent Waterwaysalways on the job to give us prompt and courteous service iin the locks, the actual physical operation of going through a lock was a matter of from twenty to thirty minutes.  Ten locks in a day's cruising thus meant a delay of approximately four or five hours.  When this time is taken out of the daylight hours of a September day in the latitude of Ontario, one's cruising radius with a slow boat is bound to be somewhat restricted.

Route is just roughly indicated; it is NOT their exact path.

Leaving Bobcaygeon the route of the Trent Waterway swings into Pigeon Lake, crawls

through a tiny inlet on the eastern middle shore, and goes into Buckhorn Lake.  Buckhorn Lake is almost as much of a huge swamp as it is a lake, and we found some diffivculty in following the buoys through it's maze of islands, submerged trees, and floating islands of aquatic vegetation.  In spite of our efforts to follow the buoys, a fog that closed in around us caused us to lose them, with the result we fumbled around in the swamps for an hour, and finally went aground in a field of semi submerged stumps.  We'd have been in there for the rest of the day but for the fog lifting, and enabling us to find our way to the line of buoys again.  The delay, however, ended our hopes of getting to Peterborough that night.  Noon found us cruising out of Buckhorn Lake into Lovesick Lake, and eating the lunch that Mrs. Shelby had provided.  That lunch is one of the memories of the Trent Waterways, for we were hungry, and the box contained fried chicken, sandwiches, pickles, cake, and a whole apple pie.  No imagination is needed to picture such a lunch under those circumstances.

If there was any one place in the Trent Waterways that made a profound impression upon us it was Stony Lake, one of the most beautiful lakes in the entire system.

It is appropriately named, the shores being very rocky and wooded, and the lake itself is studded with tiny islands of reddish rock much like the pepper shaker assembly of islands in Georgian Bay.

Hundreds  of summer homes are built on these islands and they are the most artistic of inexpensive structures imaginable.

The whole lake is a place of beauty, peace and human contentment - a veritable fairyland.

Navigating Stony Lake would be difficult indeed but for the fact the channels are so well buoyed that no one but a blind navigator could get off his course.  Darkness began to overtake us at Youngs Point in the Otonabee River, but we cruised on after going down the locks there, stopping for the night at Lakefield.  Lakefiedld is only about ten miles from Peterborough, but with six locks in that distance, our anticipated run could not be completed that day.

Dropping down through the stairway of locks between Lakefield and Peterborough on the morning of September fifth, we arrived at the top of the great hydraulic lift lock near Peterborough shortly after noon.  We found a group of Canadian girls who had been waiting for several hours for a boat to come along so they could see a lock in operation.  They were delighted when they found we intended to lock down.  

We also found a welcoming committee of Peterborough citizens waiting for us at the lift lock.  The group of gentlemen included A. L. Killaly, the superintendent of the Trent Waterways.  A younger newspaper reporter was assigned to go down the locks with us, and show us to a prearranged landing place in Peterborough.  There, he told us, we'd find automobiles waiting, so we could join the others at the Empress Hotel.  

We were given no opportunity to even change our clothes, but sat down to dinner in this fashionable hotel in the high boots, and rough woolens that comprised our yachting costumes.  By this time, however, we had learned that inCanada men are judged by character and deeds rather than by the clothes they wear.  To go into all the details of the hospitality we received in Peterborough would be too long a story.  But, our entertainment there was wonderful, and gave us further insight into the splendid type of gentlemen who compose the substantial citizenry of Canada.

We were jolly well satisfied, as the Canadians express it, to be in Peterborough that afternoon.  The wind blew a howling gale, and the rain came down in torrents all that afternoon, all night, and all day Sunday, September sixth. Monday morning dawned cold, foggy and drizzly, but we shoved of down the Otonabee River. Even had the weather been favorable we'd have been compelled to spend Sunday in Peterborough, because the God-fearing Canadians consider Sunday as a day to rest - and the Sabbath is observed by the lockkeepers!

After getting down the first lock just below Peterborough, the deluge of rain that threatened failed to materialize.  The weather settled down to gloomy fog that remained with us for 22 miles down the Otonabee River into Rice Lake.  While making the 12 mile run through Rice Lake the fog lifted a bit, and by mid-afternoon spots of blue sky began to appear.  We lunched in the boat, cruised on into the Trent River, and covered another fifteen miles before nightfall drove us to seek the inviting shelter of a boathouse maintained for the use of guests at the water's edge inn at Trent Bridge.

Still in the canalized Trent River we spent most of the day on September seventh making a run of approximately 40 miles from Trent Bridge to Cambellford.  This may not seem much mileage for  day's cruising even with an eight knot boat, but it is impossible to hurry the process of taking a boat down a ladder of locks.  I would no recommend the Trent Waterways as a cruise for anyone in a hurry.

(To be continued)

1925 - Part 4 continued - Across the Continent by Motor Boat (with Evinrude Big Twins)

If the postcards I find are any indication of the popularity of that form of communication, 1906 was the start of a great swell in their use, with the early 1900s being much easier for me to find than the teens and '20s.  
I may be getting carried away with illustrations, but if you aren't from around there, or perhaps not even a boater, I thought they would help the with visualization of the cruise.

Pulling out at Petosky...

We found the Chamber of Commerce and the newspaper reporters on the job.  They had the motor truck there, and a campaign of action outlined that made the removal of the boat from the water the easiest job of the sort on the entire trip.  The bottom of Petoskey's harbor is solid rock.  A large dray with a team of horses was driven into the water until the bed of the wagon was submerged.  We ran Transcontinental over the dray, and the horses were driven ashore.  Once ashore the truck was backed up against the rear end of the dray, and we skidded the boat on its keel from the dray to the truck.  In about an hour from the time we drew up in Petoskey Harbor we slid the boat off the truck into the waters of Crooked Lake, lengthening our portage to six miles to avoid uncertain navigation in Mud Creek and Mud Lake.  By the time we were ready to get under way the daylight was nearly gone.  We therefore completed the day with a run of three miles down Crooked Lake to the village of Ponshewaing, were we found a comfortable inn with boathouse facilities and stopped for the night.

It's not always easy to find a relevant postcard illustration. 

Our run from Ponshewaing to Cheboygan on August twenty-fourth, a distance of 50 miles, was one of the most pleasant day's cruises of the entire run from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic.  The wind blew a howling gale all day long but did not bother us while cruising through these small and sheltered inland waters.  Had we remained on Lake Michigan, we'd have been mastheaded in Petoskey that day, with the wind blowing as it did we could not have made the run of 40 miles, 20 miles offshore around the line of reefs stretched out between Lake Michigan and the Straits of Mackinac.  

For those of may not be familiar with this route across the northern end of the South Peninsula of Michigan, I should mention that the entire inland trip can be made from Lake Huron to Crooked Lake, within six miles of Petoskey, by any boat that does not require more than three feet of water.

The watershed of the entire system is into Lake Huron.  Crooked Lake discharges into Crooked River.  Crooked River is about a hundred feet wide, and meanders literally all around Robin Hood's barn, flowing about sixteen miles from Crooked Lake into Burt Lake.  It is fine, clear water, full of fish, and with a current of about one mile per hour ambling through swamp lands and forest.

( "around Robin Hood's barn" meaning something indirect; a new one on me!)

"Around Horseshoe Bend, Crooked River, Inland Route"

Mullet Lake, Cheboygan, Michigan

Burt Lake, small though it is, was kicking up a nasty sea when we made our run of eight miles across it to the outlet into Indian River.  Indian River is about as crooked as Crooked River, and traverses a magnificent forest wilderness before discharging into Mullet Lake.  Mullet Lake is twelve miles long and four miles wide.  The wind was howling down the length of it, and there we got an illustration of how infamously rough some of these small, shallow inland lakes can get under the right kind of wind conditions.

We arrived in front of Topinabee at noon, stopped there for lunch, and then went on down the lake to its own confluence with the Cheboygan River.  This run down Mullet Lake was through about the same sort of water we'd encountered in crossing Grand Traverse Bay.

In the Cheboygan River we found a placid, gently flowing stream, easily navigable, and winding through pulp wood forest and farm lands.  Cruising it was pure pleasure until we reached the edge of the town of Cheboygan.  There we found the river somewhat obstructed by pulp logs, and encountered a dilapidated old wooden lock around a dam constructed by a paper mill for the purpose of creating hydroelectric power.

Check out the cows grazing by the mill...

After a half-hour's search of the paper mill and the surrounding neighborhood we succeeded in locating the lock keeper, who didn't want to be bothered operating the lock until the following morning.  When I assured him time was a tremendously important factor with us, and applied the proper lubricant to the itching palm, he condescendingly agreed to let us down the lock at once - provided we'd give him a lift with the rickety old gates and sluices which required the combined efforts of about four husky men with miscellaneous crowbars and leverage devices.  After an hour's effort we got the pulp logs and driftwood cleared away from the upper gate, and pried the gate open.  

When we got into the lock the whole ramshackle wooden structure leaked so badly that we could scarcely get the water to lower.  We got down within a foot of the lower level, but the water would go no lower.  The relation between leaks and outlet were exactly balanced.  The lock keeper, however, was not defeated.  He brought a block and fall, and with it we all but tore the wobbly gate to pieces getting it opened against the water pressure until we had a six foot crack between the two lower gates.  But, that was enough for Transcontinental's five foot beam.  Wilton set up his movie camera and turned the crank on shore while Woodbury and I manned the boat and shot the rapids out of the lock and down onto the level of Lake Huron.

Going down the Cheboygan River to the center of the town, we found the men full of press reports concerning us, but hardly expecting us to heave into sight in the direction from which we came.
They gave us a berth for the boat alongside the market, and instructed the watchman to keep an eye on it.  Lalonde's Inn, the principal hostelry of Cheboygan looked good to us that night.

"...principal hostelry..."?  There were other much bigger establishments...so, I think, Hoag was being editorial.
But,  Lalonde's was not the only big place in town.

Next morning we found a gentle breeze blowing and with a murky overcast sky that was half fog and half smoke from nearby forest fires.  No rain had fallen in that part of the country for weeks. Everything looked as dry and tindery as Southern California in the rainless season, except that there were no irrigated sections to relieve the monotony of this drought blighted region.  

Forest fires were burning everywhere.  Six different fires were in full view when we passed out of the Cheboygan River and began heading across the South Channel toward Pointe au Pins on Bois Blanc Island.  We found the straits somewhat choppy, but what wind there was was blowing from the north, so we cruised across to Bois Blanc Island, got in the lee of it, and then headed along the shore towards Round Island and Mackinac Island.  At noon we tied up at the Coast Guard Station on Mackinac Island.

A quaint and picturesque spot is this little summer resort isle on the cross roads of the Great Lakes.  Rich in history and romance, and with only rubber shod horses as a substitute for the noise and  hub-bub of motor car traffic it is as restful and pleasant a place I've ever been that is anything like it - that is Bermuda.

Returning to the Coast Guard station and seeking advice concerning prospective weather, the captain of the station advised us to hurry right along to Detour at the tip of the North Peninsula.
"You've got good weather this afternoon," he said, "but tomorrow it is going to blow."
We decided to act upon this sound advice, but before shoving off we stopped to exchange further greetings with the Coast Guard Captain, and the captain of a businesslike rum chaser that had pulled in off of Lake Huron for fuel.  The captain of the rum chaser advised us to run for Detour at once, and then clear from there for Thessalon, Ontario, in order to carry out our plan of following the north shore of Lake Huron into Georgian Bay.  He advised this route as preferable to my plan of running south of Drummond Island, between Drummond and Cockburn Islands, and along the north shore of Manitoulin Island to Little Current.  

In further conversation with the Captain of the Coast Guard, he said: "Your trip reminds me somewhat of a chap who came along this way last year.  He came out of Milwaukee, I believe, and was heading through to New York.  He's a writer, and I rememnber that he said he lived somewhere in California."  I replied to the Captain that I thought I knew the gentleman to whom he referred.  "I think Mr. Lewis R. Freeman is the man you mention."  "Aye, that's the man."

Read it here...

On the rest of the transcontinental motor boat cruise, or from Mackinac Island to New York City, we met people in nearly every port we touched who told us of having met Mr. Freeman the previous year.  If they didn't remember his name they remembered his size, and invariably described him as "a monstrous big fellow traveling with an outfit about like yours - but alone."  On through Canada, through the Trent waterway, through Lake Ontario, down the St. Lawrence, up the Richelieu, and from Lake Champlain to Gotham, we touched so many places where friend Freeman had been that I almost feel that I'm retelling his story in attempting to carry the story of Transcontinental on to the Atlantic seaboard.

However, I find Mr. Freeman's account of the journey all the more interesting now that I've been over his route, and it is impossible for identical experiences to befall different parties even though they travel the same path. Although we traveled something like 4,000 miles before we picked up Mr. Freeman's Great Lakes trail, we were still a long way from New York when we arrived at Mackinac Island.  This story would be far from complete without recounting at least the highlights of the cruise of Transcontinental from August 25 to October 4 and from the Straits of Mackinac to New York City.


There were twelve miles of open water to be crossed between Mackinac Island and Isle Alarquette, the southern most of the Les Cheneaux Islands.  While we would have enjoyed very much running behind Les Cheneaux Island, the time that the trip would require made it a route to be taken only if we were driven in by bad weather in the open waters.  With favorable weather, and a blow promised for the following day, we pulled away from Mackinac Island on the shortest possible route to Detour,  thirty-eight miles off over the horizon in the haze of fog and forest fire smoke.

Isle Alarquette was not in sight due to low visibility, so we had to hunt it out with our chart course and compass.  Fortunately our navigating that day wasn't as bad as it was the day we crossed Lake Michigan, and at two o'clock in the afternoon the island came into view just about where we expected to find it.

Once alongside the tip of Isle Arquette any landlubber's navigation could be relied  upon for the rest of the run to Detour, for it was a plain case of going by the chart and following the shore.  The gentle wind and somewhat choppy sea died down as

c. 1910 - Main St., Detour  (I think it really is De Tour Village)

 we cruised on through the afternoon.

We were running along a lee shore and made fair time, pulling into a landing at Detour in the shelter of a wrecked steamer piled on the beach, and arriving there at 7:30 in the evening.

Detour doesn't boast a hotel, but we found a longshoreman's wife who conducts a boarding and rooming house where we were able to procure food and lodging. By this time we were about through with attempting to camp.  Too much time was lost at camping, and more than that - the early onslaughts of winter at this altitude exerted a persuasive influence that made us willing to sleep in a bed whenever a bed under a roof was available.  Later in the evening we hunted up the local customs officer and got clearance papers for our boat into Canada, expecting to pull out for Thessalon in the morning.

The gale of wind that the weather bureau had forecast for August 26 proved to be no false prophecy.  We arose that morning to find that Detour meant making a detour from our scheduled route if we expected to get to Thessalon that day.  The wind was sweeping down from the northeast so violently that it was almost difficult to retain one's footing on land, and with thirty-six miles of open water across the North Channel between Detour and Thessalon, we knew what that meant.  It would have been suicide for us to attempt to run that day.  Thus, if we desired to avoid the loss of another day we had no alternative but to detour ourselves through waters that we could travel under the existing weather condition.

For those readers, who, like me, are not familiar with this region, the towns and the general vicinity of Seault St. Marie on both sides of the border are called "The Soo".

St. Marys River connects Lake Superior (top left)
 to Lake Huron (bottom and right), Wikipedia
CLICK FOR DETAILED MAP

There were just two possible routes open to us. One was to run up St. Mary's River to Sault St. Marie, across over to the Canadian Soo, and then run around the north side of Sugar Island and St. Joseph Island.  That route to Thessalon, while much longer than directly across the North Channel, had the advantage of sheltered waters to the Soo, and the lee shores of the Ontario mainland from the Soo to Thessalon.

The other possible route for us was to run along the lee shores of Drummond and Cockburn Islands.  But that called for a dangerous crossing between the two islands, and a bad run through the Straits of Missasauga between Cockburn Island and Manitoulin Island.  Going south of Cockburn Island also involved useless milealge, and a practical certainty of a weather tie up once we reached the north shore of Manitoulin Island.  Thus our decision to go to the Soo was a sort of Hobson's Choice.  It was about the only place we had a chance to go, but with the added attraction of letting us visit the great Soo Locks which none of us had ever seen.

Never having intended to go to the Soo, we had no charts of St. Marys River.  A local lake captain, however, cleared this difficulty away for us by offering us the use of the three necessary charts on condition we'd mail them back to him from Thessalon where our own charts would pick up the trail again.  

We got under way at 8 o'clock that morning, and in a very few minutes were heading up St. Marys River around the south shore of St. Joseph Island.  St Marys River has quite a vigorous current, and the volume of water it pours into Lake Huron and Lake Michigan is certainly many times the quantity being taken out of the lakes by the Chicago Drainage Canal.  The current retarded our speed considerably, and in some places where the river narrowed down we found we had scarcely four miles per hour left after overcoming the resisting force against us.  Fortunately, however, there are only a few miles of swift water in the fifty mile run from Detour to the Soo.  We took lunches aboard the boat when we left Detour, and from 8 o'clock in the morning until 5 o'clock that afternoon LEWIS, the motor we used that day, never once ceased to turn his 1,200 revolutions.

If we had felt lonesome in some of the waters in which we had previously cruised, we certainly could never say that of the St. Marys River.  Never in any water on the face of the earth that I was ever in have I seen such a parade of shipping as moves up and down that river.  A parade of shipping is the only term to describe it, for the ships trail one another up and down the river in an endless procession during 24 hours of every day that waters are not closed to navigation by ice. 



One sees there every type of ships to be found on the Great Lakes, and carrying the name of every port of registry from Duluth to Buffalo, and from Chicago to Port Arthur.  There are also many smaller packets of foreign registry; for any ship from any port on the seven seas that can pass through the St. Lawrence and Welland Canals is liable to poke its nose into this beehive of freshwater maritime commerce.  Citizens of the Soo boast of the fact that the annual tonnage of shipping handled through the Soo Locks is greater than the combined tonnage of the Panama and Suez Canals and the ports of Liverpool, Southhampton, and Cherbourg; and that this staggering total is accomplished during a navigation season of approximately eight months.

Landing at the American Soo near five o'clock in the afternoon we hurried to the customs house, and changed our clearance papers to enable us to enter Canada by crossing the river to the Canadian Soo.  Then after a brief sojourn with our feet under the table of a nearby restaurant we said goodbye to the United States until we would reenter into the State of New York at the lower end of Lake Champlain.  Had we been expecting an ordeal with the Canadian Customs officials we'd have been disappointed.  Put-putting across the river we landed at the Canadian Customs House landing. Nobody paid any attention to us whatever until I went into the building and buttonholed a customs officer, and informed him we desired to establish ourselves in compliance with Canadian laws.  The officer then came out, took a look at our boat from the dock, asked a few questions, and told us to run along.


The morning of August 27 dawned without a breath of wind blowing.  A high fog that hung over the country was heavily charged with the smoke from nearby forest fires fanned to a fury by the gale of the previous day.  Ashes were dropping around the Soo as we shoved off for a run up the river to have a look at the locks and rapids before heading around for Hoboken.  After making a run about half way up the rapids to see how they compared with the rapids of Columbia and upper Missouri, we ran to the American locks.  We needed no introduction to the lock officials.  Press publicity allowed them to address us by our names when we informed them we desired to go up and down the locks - just to have a look at them, and to shoot a few photographs.

The Soo Locks are comparable in size to to those of the Panama Canal, through which I had the pleasure of taking a 15-foot Evinrude outfit something over a year ago; and they are operated with precisely the same degree of speed and efficiency as the locks of Panama.  Transcontinental looked rather diminutive in these great locks, and our small size was accentuated by our locking up and down with a couple of 10,000 ton ore boats.  We made both still pictures and movies of the Soo Locks and rapids, but with the poor light and poorer visibility due to fog and smoke the results were scarcely more than a waste of negative stock.

But this story is running to too great a length.  Many unimportant details must be omitted.  We got away from the Soo at ten o'clock in the morning, and made good speed with the current down the North Channel of St. Marys River, north of Sugar Island, through the wide expanse of water known as Lake George, and around St. Joseph Island into the main waters of Lake Huron again.  While the day was miserable from the standpoint of photography or appreciation of scenery, we could scarcely have picked a better day for making mileage.  There being no wind at all we had nothing but glassy surfaces that day, and aided for thirty-five miles by the current flowing down St. Marys River from Lake Superior.  The North Channel of lake Huron, which we had not dared to cross two days before, was like a pane of glass when we ran out the mouth of St. Marys River.  We rounded the end of St. Joseph Island at two o'clock in the afternoon, then held a course well out to sea for twenty miles, putting in at Thessalon a few minutes after sundown.

Both of these postcards are probably of a Thessalon 10 to 15 years before our boys pulled in there.

By this time the the shortening hours of daylight had become a matter of grave concern for us, for daylight was like butter to us - there is no substitute for it.   It became necessary for us to take full advantage of every minute when there was light enough for travel.  This meant getting out in the morning, ready to shove off with the first rays of dawn, lunching in the boat, and never stopping except when we were compelled to do so.  The part of this program which grieved Wilton and me most was the necessity of passing up some of the most excellent photographic and motion picture material.  Both of us being men of photographic tastes and training, passing up some of  the material that we were forced to pass up for the necessity of making mileage was something of the plight of the hunter in a rich game country and with a disabled gun.

We were far more fortunate in the matter of favorable weather in the open water areas of Lake Huron than we had been in Lake Michigan.  After leaving the Soo, we had four solid days of windless weather - days that were foggy smokey from forest fires, and with low visibility, but excellent for traveling.  If we could but reach the million island region of Georgian Bay under favorable weather conditions the weather would give us scant worry until we reached Lake Ontario.

Thus, we got out of Thessalon at the break of dawn on August 28, lunched at Blind River, and camped that night at Manitoulin Island within ten miles of Little Current, the principal point of human activities on this magnificent Canadian wilderness playground between Georgian Bay, Lake Huron and the North Channel.  

We pared 80 miles of the transcontinental waterway distance that day in a twelve hour run.  Hoping to get to Little Current that night, and sleep in a bed, we fell just ten miles short of our mark, camping for the first time in several weeks.  There in cold contrast with the torrid heat of the Missouri and Illinois River country, we all but froze to death in spite of warm sleeping bags and heavy blankets.

With another favorable day of of windless, humid, and semi-foggy weather, we clipped off a fine day's run of approximately 76 miles from our camp on Manitoulin Island to Byng Inlet.  By this time we were into the island region of Georgian Bay, and didn't care a great deal what the weather might do.  It could do its worst, but we would still have favorable water to travel upon.  No written description of this region can do it justice.  One needs charts, and good charts, too, to attempt to navigate these waters, or gain any comprehensive knowledge of what they are really like.  Persons who have heard of, or seen the famous Thousand Island Region of the St. Lawrence River should have a look at a large scale chart of Georgian Bay - or preferably take a motor boat through  the Georgian Bay archipelago - and get some brand new ideas about islands in a group.  



When I broke out our charts of these waters I must admit I received somewhat of a shock.  I was convinced, at least, that when the charts were made they put the islands on the map by dusting them on with a pepper shaker.  There are no less than ten thousand islands that haven't got names.  It would strain the English language to attempt to name them all - these islands that range from tiny snags of rock to areas of forested land several square miles in extent.  Moreover, the lowering of the lake levels during the past several years has produced a few thousand islands that were not in sight when the charts were printed.  Navigating through this conglomerate assortment of islands, rocks and submerged islands is a task to tax the navigator at reading his charts and logging his position.  With our little packet drawing only 18 inches of water we had little hesitation at running down the inside of everything on our day's run from Byng Inlet to Parry Sound, and another day's run from Barry Sound to Port McNicoll.  But, I would be very reluctant about attempting this trip with any boat of greater draft.

I found that about the only way I could keep track of our position was to watch the chart and compass like a cat watching a mousehole, and log our route along the chart with pencil notations about every minute.   If I took my eye off the job of navigating for so much as a minute it was usually to lose track of our position.  Then it was a case of eyeing the surrounding landscapes, and checking with the chart and compass before we'd get ourselves located again.  Despite our best efforts, and assuming three heads are better than one, we lost ourselves no fewer than a dozen times.  Once we fumbled around for half an hour zig-zaging in and out between islands and snags of rock on a general south by east course before we were able to pick up our general position on the chart again.  Time without number we squeaked over snarls of jagged rocks that reached upward trying to grab the bottom out of the boat.  But for the clarity of the water, which enabled us to see submerged rocks where there wasn't sufficient water to let us over, I'm sure we could never have made the run throught GeorgianBay without coming to grief.  A it was, we got through with no mishap greater than a single broken shear-off pin caused by striking a submerged reef with our propeller - a reef that none of us saw until after we clipped it.

Leaving Port McNicoll on the morning of August 31 the personnel of the transcontinental motor boat
party was reduced to two, Mr. Woodbury finding it necessary to depart for Boston by train.  

He  has a great ambition to finish the cruise, but circumstances that had developed during the 110 days since leaving Los Angeles made it impossible for him to continue.  We had expected to accomplish the entire trip in 90 days.  He had arranged his business affairs accordingly, but upon our arrival at Port McNicoll we were exactly 20 days behind our schedule into New York, and with little prospect of getting to the end of our seemingly interminable journey short of another 30 days of cruising.  To further frustrate his plans he had suffered for weeks from an ailment for which a surgical operation was the only hope of relief.

About three miles down the bay from Port Nicoll we picked up the first buoy marking the entrance to the Trent Waterways.  (Trent-Severn Waterway) But for this line of buoys it is certain that very few yachtsmen would ever safely find their way  through the maze of islands and little snarls of rocks through which boats must wend their way up to the first lock at Port Severn.  The buoys, however, make the run very simple and easy.  The Trent waterways Development Association at Peterborough, Ontario had also furnished us with a splendid set of charts.

Arriving at the first lock, the lock tender recognized us almost instantly, and declared he'd been on the lookout for us for the past six weeks.  At his suggestion, I went to a nearby inn while the the boat was put through the lock, and phoned the secretary of the Trent Waterways Development Association at the Peterborough headquarters.  The toll on the phone call was ninety cents, but its value to us will never even be estimated in dollars.  The waterways association had promised us every possible cooperation, and the manner in which that cooperation developed during the cruise through the Trent Waterways left us with a very kindly feeling toward Canada and Canadians.  It was the thing which enabled us to really get acquainted with the Canadians, and to meet some of the finest people that it has ever been our pleasure to meet either in the United States or outside our national boundaries.  It made the 250 mile run through the Trent Waterways one of the most pleasant portions of the entire ocean to ocean motor boat cruise, and sent us back to the United States with memories of a country and a nation of people whom we may feel proud to have as our friendly neighbor.  

(To be continued)

The Trent-Severn Waterway was finished in 1915 and became obsolete almost immediately as freighter sizes had so increased they could not use the canal.  Instead the trains carried cargo off loaded from the freighters.