To the rhythm of horseshoes clacking on cobbles, to the flavors of meals ordered in French, we eased into our adventure.
We slept late, toured cathedrals, and climbed mountain paths. Yet Montreal’s comforts receded after three short days, as we motored five hours from civilization to the Outaouais region of Quebec. We were headed for Lac Pythonga, population zero, an unorganized territory within a ZEC, something I (and probably you) had never heard of before. It sounds complicated, even exotic, but in sum, we were going off the grid.
After a few wrong turns, and a spirited exchange with the proprietor of an ice cream stand to request directions, we met our friends, who had driven out of the wilderness to guide us. Even family members who had visited for decades could not find their cabin in the dark, they explained; and we should not attempt to straddle rocks with our car wheels once we left the dirt road, or risked piercing our car’s oil pan. Duly warned, we rumbled and bounced to our destination.
Stepping over the lone moose tibialying forlornly near our rear wheel, the men loaded our luggage into Al and Aurora’s open skiff, a Boston Whaler. We sped off through crisp autumn air, rounding an island to reach the cabin. Within uninsulated log walls, generations of family history were displayed. We were shown to our comfortable room upstairs, boasting radiant heat glowing from the exhaust pipe that ascended from the first floor’s wood stove. A sink stood in one corner. Hot water was available, but only by powering up the deafening propane generator. Showers were few. In fitful seasonal light, kerosene lanterns lit games of afternoon Scrabble.
Flashlights were issued. Fire extinguishers were pointed out. Borrowing blaze orange hats and vests, we toured empty cabins. Full of trout dinner, we curled up like children and listened as Al read ghost stories by firelight.
Unwinding, renewing, we returned to ourselves again.
