Crouching in six inches of water, I scooped furiously with the bailing can while Bill, at the wheel, turned the wallowing boat around. We returned to our marina berth under the stern eye of the harbour master, whose opinion of us as sailors, already low, had surely dropped several notches. A duck-hunting boat!

It had all begun in optimism and, I admit, some ignorance.

In spring 2024, Bill and I were looking around for a charity challenge to follow the one of the previous summer, when we’d walked the Algonquin to Adirondacks (A2A) Ecological Corridor to raise money for Nature Canada and the A2A Collaborative. Bill suggested an expedition on the St. Lawrence, adding that he had a boat — of a sort. Rashly, I proposed exploring the upper estuary, this time raising funds for Nature Quebec. Here, the river acquires another soul: salt water flowing in from the Atlantic Ocean mingles with fresh water from the Great Lakes.

And so we set out in Hepcat from the town of Portneuf, 60 kilometres west of Quebec City, under a long glide of blue sky, the river calm beneath us. Hepcat was loaded up with fishing rods, fenders, rain gear, a cooler, a toolbox, camping equipment, rubber boots, collapsible chairs, waterproof navigational charts and a small trolling motor with its battery. I dipped a finger in the water: yes, fresh. We were still in the fluvial or freshwater estuary, which runs from roughly Lac Saint-Pierre, near Trois-Rivières, to the eastern tip of Île d’Orléans past Quebec City. Moving east on the river, we’d enter the upper estuary in a couple of days and eventually be able to taste the sea. 

All these conditions add up to the sea, but for those first calm days the estuary concealed its character.

We took a leisurely few hours to motor from Quebec City to the aforementioned Berthier-sur-Mer, and the next day took a ferry from the harbour to Grosse Île, one of 21 islands that form the Isle-aux-Grues archipelago. Now a national historic site, Grosse Île served as the country’s main immigration gateway and quarantine stop from 1832 to 1937. It is a lovely place to take in a bit of history, with its rocky shorelines on the north, tidal flats on the eastern side and fledges of fir, maple and oak all over.

“Ever see any whales from here?” I asked one of the Parks Canada guides.

“We hope we don’t see any,” she replied, “because if we do, it means they’re lost.” Rarely, whales get disoriented and have made it as far upstream as Montreal, but the voyage doesn’t often end well for them. Fresh water is not their element.

We ended up staying another two nights in Berthier-sur-Mer because of the weather. The first day was rainy, the second breezy (that was the ill-fated day we almost swamped.) The third day was also breezy, but Bill suggested that if we stuck close to the shore, we could avoid the worst of the waves. I figured that had its own risks. Sure enough, half an hour out, our propeller scraped bottom. But we made it 18 kilometres downstream to a town called Montmagny, where we moored in a small marina and raised the engine to have a look at the propeller. Some “wild usages” were evident on one of the blades.

As we found out later, the Drunken Boat is one of the incontournables (must-see sights) of Isle-aux-Grues. A storied vessel that took part in the D-Day invasion, it served as a cruise ship in the 50s until it was run up on land, where its upper deck was converted into a restaurant. When the restaurant closed, it fell into disrepair and now sits with rusting and algaed sides, a few tree saplings growing on its decks. 

Just beyond the Drunken Boat was a 200-year-old inn, Auberge Pourvoirie, where we had a much-needed hot breakfast and then set out to explore the island.

Isle-aux-Grues (the Island of Cranes) is known for its cheese, its birdlife and its connections to the painter Jean-Paul Riopelle. It is not known for its cranes (apparently a mistake of its early settlers, who confused the birds with herons). We walked an easy circuit around the western part of the island, past quaint historic houses with model lighthouses and ships in the yards, and eventually ended up at the post office.

“So you’re Bill Barkley!” said the clerk. “We were calling all over to find out who you were. We thought you were a local.”

I was nervous. We had to cross 14 kilometres of open water, and wind and fog could appear at any time. But Bill set a compass reading, and we motored out past foam lines and into the grey expanse. The clarity of the morning had faded somewhat, and the sky was like hazed glass, with the faintest underwash of blue. I sat in the stern while Bill drove from mid-ships; with the weight thus distributed, Hepcat rode the waves better. I studied the water for signs of whales and seals; Bill studied his compass; and we both glanced frequently at the navigational charts. 

In the middle of the estuary, we felt we could have been in the middle of the ocean.

But we made it — and ended up at the very beautiful Baie-Saint-Paul, a sea town hemmed by mountains. With only a few days left in our adventure, we knew we’d never reach Tadoussac, 120 kilometres further along the north shore. We decided that the next day, we would return by bus and Uber to Portneuf, retrieve our vehicle and trailer, and retrace our route to collect Hepcat.