Bob Henderson, against his better judgement, takes to Georgian Bay in high season, and finds it almost quiet. What’s the odd boating party, he asks, when compared to the uproar of times gone by — the historic traffic of fur trade brigades and inter-tribal traders, sailors hauling freight, fishermen, foresters and miners all working out of active inland ports of call?

For years, I have avoided paddling sections of Georgian Bay in the summer. I would paddle there in the spring when colder May weather and June bugs would prevent heavy travel use, but summer was out. Let’s remember, Toronto is now North America’s fifth largest city and Georgian Bay (along with Algonquin Park) is the city’s “get away from it all” playground.

Well, to my surprise, though the Bay is undeniably busier in the summer with paddlers and boaters in everything from luxury yachts to small motorboats, the traffic seemed manageable. More importantly, I had the eerie feeling that, historically speaking, the place was downright quiet. What’s the odd boating party today when set against the swell of historic traffic ... fur trade brigades and inter-tribal traders, sailors hauling freight to intense schedules, fishermen, foresters and miners all working out of active inland ports of call. Compared to this uproar, the Bay today seems ... well ... quiet.

On calm morning paddles in spring or summer, I’ve paddled along the top of the Bruce Peninsula or woven my way through the Thirty Thousand Islands or the islands at the mouth of the French River. More than once, I have wondered: where has everybody gone?

Drops in the bucket?
First, Georgian Bay is big. At approximately 192 km by 80 kim (120 mi. X 50 mi.), the Bay alone is almost the size of Lake Ontario. It can absorb a lot of traffic. Its size, plus the maze of islands along its northern and eastern shores, allow for a variety of lanes of travel. (I really should drop this traffic language, since in most areas, paddlers can still see clear evidence of busier days: native subterranean dwellings, fur trade campsites, shipwrecks, lighthouses, long abandoned mooring sites or ghost towns.) The size and grandeur of Georgian Bay somehow emphasize the quiet presence of its history.

David Taylor examining shipwreck remains of 1900s The Coral off the Busturd Islands

Second, the Bay can be fierce. With 70 nautical miles (one nautical mile equals 1,852 metres) between Parry Sound and the Flowerpot Island off Tobermory on the Bruce Peninsula, surprising waves can roll in and wind changes are predictably unpredictable. Kayakers who head to the outer islands like the southern shore of the Bustards, Flowerpot Island, the Minks and particularly the Limestones, should expect their travel plans to change — but they will also see fewer travellers, grander horizons and sunsets. (See KANAWA, Fall 2002, “Paddling Tom Thomson’s Other Lake.”)

Quiet presence of history
The grandeur of the Bay is as evident today as it was to Samuel de Champlain in 1615, when he named it La Mer Douce, the Sweetwater Sea. I am certain he was unprepared for the vista that awaited him at the mouth of the French River. Later that summer, he would meet his “exchange student” Etienne Brulé, whom he had sent five years earlier, at age 18, to live among the Huron on the southern shores of the Bay.

We know next to nothing of those five years of Brulé’s life. Perhaps he travelled out to Limestone Island or to the spawning beds 5 km (3 mi.) out from the Mink Islands to spear whitefish and trout in the fall and to collect gull and tern eggs in the spring. Perhaps he travelled north to trade with the Odawa or even the Cree further north. He might have been sworn to secrecy regarding such travels. We do know that native families used waterway connections, such as the Dumoine and the Spanish Rivers, to rendezvous with others from the north at strategic heights of land. We can only wonder at the extent of the trade in buffalo and other furs, maize and birchbark rolls.

“Blocks of cast iron”
Almost 200 years later, the Bay still had the capacity to awe traders as it had Champlain. When fur-trade clerk George Nelson arrived from the French River in 1802, he wrote this account.

We had a furious storm here of 36 hours. It is here, too, (on the 4th of June 1801) I completed my sixteenth year. I do not remember the date we left this place; but we had a great deal of wind, & frequent cold rains & some dense fogs. I was much surprised, & gazed with delight & amazement, at the immense expanse of water to the West, the horison only bounding our view. On the land side, if rocks can be named land, immense high rocks resembling more enormous blocks of cast iron. But the country seemed well wooded. The water, at a little distance from shore was beautifully green & clear.

Nelson almost certainly camped at the Prairie des Francois just up the Voyageur Channel, at a location I have been unable to find — yet I’ve been told by good authority that I can’t miss it! (This quest will send me back to the Bay soon.) Nelson’s trip reports intrigued me, particularly one story of rounding the exposed land of Point Grondine — “if rocks can be named land” — heading west toward Killarney. The stretch is a chilling proposition with any kind of wind. Nelson recalls one voyageur who began “his conjuring ... The Knight [Alexander MacKenzie] was much displeased and rebuked him for his nonsense.” I have been blessed with fair weather here, but can easily imagine the voyageur’s horror, and his hope to draw benevolent spirits into play. Clearly the Prairie des Francois was a well-used camping spot for a reason. Parties would wait for perfect conditions if heading out to the Bay. If they were arriving, it would be wise to wait to round the exposed point in the lighter winds of evening. It is easy to establish some kinship with these former travellers with whom we share the same geography. Some 35 years later in 1837, the confused, rocky shoreline of the Bay confounded the great, aging explorer and map-maker of the western interior, David Thompson.

On coming to the great island [Bone Island] at the north end of which we were led to believe we should find the Southern Branch of the Muskoka River I soon found from the appearance of all about us that we had to find the Main Land, as all before us were rocky granite Islands, in order to be sure to find the River we were in search of. We had much difficulty in getting to the Main Land, and in following it, in hope of finding Rivers, etc. we were led into Channels and Bays, later Rivers, from which we had to return.

The flowerpots are a fitting image of the Bay’s history. I felt I was on a throne of sorts overlooking the Bay. The stories of human presence are everywhere, underlying so much of what we see, but ultimately, our human actions are dwarfed, both then and now, by the powerful presence of water, rock, wind and the elements.
Bob Henderson, the KANAWA heritage specialist, teaches Outdoor Education at McMaster University. Email him at bhender@mcmaster.ca

Suggested reading

Kayaking Georgian Bay, by Jonathon Reynolds & Heather Smith. $19.95 (Mem $17.96)
With 30 individual routes covering the North shore, the Eastern shore, the Southern Bay and the Bruce, the authors prove that the waters of Georgian Bay were designed for kayakers.

“Long Crossing in Time,” by Bob Henderson. KANAWA, August/October, 1997.

The Bruce Beckons, by W. Sherwood Fox. University of Toronto Press, 1952.

Ghosts of the Bay: A Guide to the History of Georgian Bay, by Russell Floren and Andrea Gutsche. Lynx Images, 1998.