Last vestige of Winter, May 1974: Matane, PQ

It is at least a three day journey driving leisurely from Nova Scotia back to Toronto. Our week on the coast of Nova Scotia was mild, bright, and although the water was too chilly for swimming, the shore provided fantastic settings for beachcombing and hikes. Accompanying me was my daughter Natalie, and Liz a friend. We spent our nights in a tent. On our return, the first night was spent on a beach facing the Northumberland Strait between New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. It was uncomfortably breezy during the night and we huddled for warmth but still slept fitfully. In morning light we observed a light snow cover over the whole landscape. We packed up and figured that as long as we did not camp on a beach we would make it home without more restless nights. We pressed on toward the Gaspe Peninsula.
On our map we noticed a large provincial park offered a road through it down to the shore of the Saint Laurence River. We decided that would be a good place to camp and being in a forest we could likely build a fire if needed. At the entrance to the park was a caretaker’s cabin. He spoke French and halting English, we did just the opposite. We gathered that the park was not yet open for the season, but he offered us a room in his cabin. We spent a warm pleasant evening enjoying his hospitality. He got pleasure from my daughter’s company, as at three years of age her willingness to speak French far surpassed ours. He spent hours playing with her and giving her elementary language lessons. We all slept well and awoke rested hoping to press on with our plan to drive through the park. After helping our host clean up the breakfast utensils, I brought out our map and pointed out our hoped for destination. Our host kept repeating lengthy phrases, the only word of which I could understand was “ferme.” I persisted questioning, even though I knew the park was closed could we just drive through it, si vous plais? He relented and opened the gate and sent us off.
The small dirt road ascended toward large peaks covered with evergreen forests. As we pressed on little snow covering appeared. With the increase in altitude the depth of snow augmented, It was evident that the road we traveled had been plowed throughout the winter. The banks on either side became higher than our vehicle. Suddenly, I noticed far ahead a figure walking in the chute that was our roadway. Drawing nearer it turned out to be a magnificent bull elk. When we got too close he would break into a trot. I would stop and as soon as he broke into a slower gait, I would drive forward. As I approached close again, the same pattern would repeat. With each successive try, we would manage to get closer before he needed to get space. Finally, instead of running, the splendid beast stopped and turned his head. I immediately halted and we spent a few moments communing. Eventually he resumed his saunter, until crossing a bridge he leapt over the side and landed on a creek bed several meters below. We paused and looked at one another. Liz offered, “ It was great to get to see you so close. Please take care next fall when hunters come into your woods.”
Just a bit up the road was a lodge. The plowing stopped there and I understood our host’s words that the road was “ferme.” As we proceeded to turn around and recrossed the bridge where we had bade goodbye to our elk host, we noticed the small stream trickling over a boulder. This was the headwaters of the Matane River. As we retraced our path down the mountain, we were aware that our road paralleled the growing river. We were treated to an astonishing vista as we followed the course of the river to where it emptied into the Saint Laurence. At its mouth, the river was a couple hundred meters across. By virtue of luck and bad communication we were blessed to be able to travel along this river from its source to its ending.