The canoe was not at all what I had expected. Where I had imagined a frail, wobbling craft stood two stout freighters. One was loaded with supplies and mail for the reserve down the lake. The other one was for us.
Waswanipi Lake spread its majestic waters to the far end of the sky. Only minutes ago a train had abandoned us in the bush like so many unwanted kittens, and then rattled away. I had pulled up one flapping end of the baby’s blanket and followed the others automatically. The bottle-brush spruce trees of the the Quebec forest semi-circled us in quiet dignity. The haunting spell of the north was already taking its mysterious hold on me.
The lake lapped patiently at our canoes as they rested on the shore. Tacit, efficient Natives with leathery faces and moose-brown hands prepared for boarding. One of them motioned for me to get in. They had me sit in mid-canoe, on the hard, ribbed floor. I sat down carefully and arranged the baby on my lap. My feet were stretched straight out. At least my back rested on one of the cross bars. This wasn’t going to be a luxury cruise in terms of comfort, but I did feel secure nestled inside the canoe. We were ready to shove off and I wasn’t afraid at all.
Two weeks ago I didn’t feel that way. We had come here at that time, my husband and I, and little Sharon, scarcely tree-months old. We were Americans yet here we were in northern Quebec with the call of God in our hearts to preach Christ to the Natives. The reserve we were headed for was on the other side of an awesome lake. The taxi across was a canoe. What should have been a challenge and adventure cast fearful shadows on me. How could I take our precious infant on this trip? No crossing was possible then, due to bad weather, so we traveled the hundred miles of dirt road back to Senneterre to other duties. I knew we would go eventually, so I prayed, “Father, you know my fears, and you know we must go to Waswanipi. Please take away the fear.”
And this very morning under a strawberry sherbet sky, God had met with me about the trip. I was sure we’d be able to go. It was early. I opened my Bible and asked the Lord for assurance. As I read my eyes stopped on these words “I go before you…” Jesus had said this to his frightened disciples after His resurrection. To them He said “I go before you into Galilee.” To me He said, “I go before you into Waswanipi.” It was His personal assurance of safety. My fears dissipated like the sleepy mists disappearing from the waking bush land before me.
My thoughts were broken by the chugging roar of the outboard motor. We moved easily out into the lake. Suddenly several tarps billowed like sails, then floated down upon the baby and me to protect us from the waters which now began to slap the canoe sharply. We were never very far from land. The sky had become clouded, and the wind whipped up white, tasseled waves. For safety’s sake, our canoe men chose a slow, time consuming route, skirting the shoreline. At one point we stopped to peel off some birch bark so my husband could hold it on the side of the canoe to keep the waves from breaking into the canoe.
Our three-month old infant nursed and slept as if in her own cradle. The trip, which ordinarily takes an hour and a half, took three. We weaved through the last reedy channels and drew up to the Hudson’s Bay landing at Waswanipi Native Reserve.
Annie, our plump Cree interpreter, chuckled as she struggled from her cramped position next to me. “Mes assiettes font mal.” She quipped. It translates, “My plates (posterior) are sore.” Mine were too.
We climbed up the small knoll that overlooked the Native settlement. Rows of white canvas tents checkered the muddy finger of land that comprised the reserve area. The Hudson’s Bay manager’s house stood apart in its prim whiteness. Curious, smiling children tagged at our heels, along with a volley of dogs of all descriptions and moods.
We were accommodated in one of the few houses on the reserve. It was a log cabin intended for a teacher’s residence. That no one had occupied it in a good while became evident after we built a fire in the wood cook stove. As the cabin warmed up, armies of mosquitoes resurrected from the woodwork. From then on, everything possible from studying to diaper changes was accomplished under fly nets. We did, literally, “eat and run.”
During the week we held services. In the daytime we visited in the tents. The Crees are unequalled in hospitality. There are no formalities, no mere words or gestures for politeness sake. But one may sit down on the sweet spruce branches that cushion the floor; drink tea and eat banak, (bread fried in a skillet) and partake of their way of life. It was not important what was said, only the tone of the spirit was heard. We spoke no Cree yet, but our presence said enough.
One evening a plane stopped for the night because it could go no farther till morning. There was one passenger. A soon-to-be mother who had her child die within her while in the bush. They came to rescue her as she was being poisoned by the dead body within. We had service in the little Anglican church and prayed for her. The next day, she was safely delivered to the hospital many miles away. After treatment she was told that she could have no more babies. Two years later we took a picture of her and her husband, and her newborn baby. God does work miracles.
In one tent a baby was crying for a long time. We were told he was sick. We went and prayed for this little one who was lying on a rabbit skin blanket. God healed him immediately. What a great God we have.
One day while talking with a young man on the dock God caused my husband to say something unusual. The young man, Billy Ottereyes, was not a believer at the time and thought it strange what he heard. “God wants to use you to lead the Cree people to the Lord.” That winter He was saved and eventually was used of God to reach his people for Jesus.
The evening before we left my husband stood at the door of the cabin for a long time. At the foot of the hill lay the tents, dim lighted squares with shadows moving about inside. Muffled sounds of dogs fighting drifted on the air. The lake lapped softly at the sky, which reached down to touch its little waves. Night in the north was moving over the terrain gently, covering with its cool darkness and setting the stage for an unforgettable performance.
The east pulled up black from behind the lake, and with it came the lightning. Jagged stripes of brilliance danced from one side of the sky to the other. Followed by a chorus line of similar beauty, varying in movement like a great symphony. Treasures of darkness they were, God’s special elixir to the spirit of man.
Next morning we set out for home. Would the promise still hold?
This time the canoe was a smaller one. We sped right down the middle of a huge mirror. Sky and water seemed a sole entity before us. However, behind us dark clouds like ominous smoke signal pursued us. The waters beneath them churned fitfully.
On the other side of the lake was the train stop. If we missed the freight train today, it would mean staying in the bush for two nights, without a tent. Our canoe man, Awashish, weighed our situation carefully. He kept appraising the storm behind and the remaining distance ahead. He knew this lake as a commuter knows his route. There was no hesitation in him at all, he held to the middle.
The longed-for shore sneaked up from the waters. It was gained quickly. We hopped out of the canoe and scrambled up the slippery bank. A battered tent had been put up by some Natives also awaiting the train. We were welcomed in. My husband and Awashish swiftly turned over the canoe and ran for the tent, just ahead of the storm. And a storm worthy of the name it was! Wind, rain and hailstones plummeted down in a freak summer storm. The lake was thrown into a fury. We learned later that a canoe fifteen minutes behind us was forced to shore.
Our baby lay safely in my arms. I reflected on the past week People with spiritual hunger had reached out for God. A dying baby had been healed and was playing happily on a rabbit skin blanket when we left. A teenageg girl, Jeanie Mianscum, had given her heart to Christ. Later she would marry a minister and work among her own people.
A sweet memory lingered of that group of smiling faces we left behind on the shore.
Jesus had indeed been to Waswanipi with me, and it was only the beginning of ten
years of journeys together in the north.
