It was one of those moments. Just as Queenie was wondering how many islands were in the Thousand Island archipelago, the bilingual tour guide tape blaring out of the speaker on the top deck of the boat began to explain. The Island Queen knew the Queenie’s mind before she knew it herself.
Apparently, an island in this group is defined as a visible slab of granite that has a diameter of more than six metres. As the water level in the St. Lawrence river fluctuates regularly, so too does the number of islands, but at the last count, there were 1,864 islands in the Thousand Islands group.
They are the oldest rocks in the world. Slabs of granite left here by some ancient glacier. According to Iroquois legend, Manitou came from heaven and promised the warring tribes paradise on earth if they would stop fighting. So they did and he did. But not long afterwards, the bickering started again and arrows flew, so Manitou returned to earth with a buffalo hide, into which he gathered paradise. He began to ascend with it to heaven, but as he did, the buffalo hide ripped, and little shards of paradise fell down into the St. Lawrence and became the tufts of grey and green we cruised amongst today.
The most beautiful parts are the little pine covered peninsulas that jut out of tiny, tiny islands. Looking at them, you get a sense of what it must have been like for the Indians who fished here, and for the first French explorers who came upon it. The bigger islands are all host to holiday homes of varying degrees of luxury and age. Some of the Victorian houses are nice – they range from turreted Queen Anne style, to NeoGothic piles, to plain clapboard pioneer type homes. They are all marred by modern marinas and swimming decks. I wondered where all the waste goes. Nobody could tell me. Into the river I suppose.
The day started out grey, but as we meandered among the islets and peeked into people’s summer lives, it brightened and hundreds of sailboats and other pleasure craft came out to play. There were a few jetskis. One portly gentleman in particular kept cutting across the wake of the Queen, to get a few bumps and show off. You could feel everyone on the top deck silently willing him to fall off. Or maybe it was just me. Meanwhile, you could look across at the United States and imagine hooch runners bringing whiskey over in the twenties.
Speaking of smuggling things across the border, someone told me the other day that there have been 4,000 deserters from the US army since the invasion of Iraq. Is that possible?
The cruise boat was the usual blaring, lowest common denominator type of tourist crap. Why have sky and water and birds and landscape when you can eat nachos and listen to the WaterRats, or Riverbend, or whatever the hell they were called. Even on deck there was no escape – their two piece plus Roland multi-instrumental blared out of the speakers when the tour tape was silent. I wonder whether the local fish set their watches to plunge each day when the boat passes.
The waterway is very historical. The French explorer La Salle found it, along with the Great Lakes, and then he went south and discovered the Mississippi. The French moved in and trapped for fur and traded with tribes such as the Mohawk. They were followed by the British, who bought a huge tract of land for some cloth and a gun and founded Kingston. They finally overcame French resistance at the Battle of Quebec, further north, and booted the French out of Canada.
You can see why they fought over it. It’s a very lush land, easily navigable by water, full of timber and must have been teeming with wildlife a century ago. The few pelted creatures that are left are no doubt underground, their paws over their ears, trying to escape the current tourist invasion. I know people have to make a living, but why can’t people who want to leave a light footprint be allowed to do it without having to spend lots of money?
I always think of George Orwell when I go on these type of trips. He seemed to have a utopian vision of the ‘bus to Brighton’ type trip, full of jolly working class types enjoying a bit of sing song. I always feel as I would if I would if I were Graham Greene trapped in one of these trips forever. I think I am a bit of a snob.
Okay, a total snob.
Anyways, the pilgrimage is done. I reckon that Mercury Rev and The Flaming Lips must live somewhere a bit more secluded, because I certainly didn’t get the vibe here.
Never mind. I tried.
Tonight, I walked around Kingston in the moonlight and looked at the lake for a long time because I probably won’t see it again for a while, if ever. It’s very beautiful.
And for the record, it’s 183 miles long and 54 miles across.
WHICH IS NOT BIGGER THAN IRELAND.
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