We have been up the Champlain waterways, through the Chambly Canal, down the St. Lawrence River to Montreal, up to Quebec on a train, and now on the Rideau canal, having passed through Ottawa. The foliage is verdant, the sky alternately weeping or dazzlingly blue, the churches ancient and towering, and the towns along the way quainter than quaint. There are a plethora of monster vacation palaces with 200K wake boats along the way, but they don't quite fit the narrative.
This adventure is way more in the column of experience than vacation. Coming around the corner in the canal out of Montreal was a 748-foot tanker, whose ability, or inclination, to "share the road" seemed truant. Traversing over 40 locks now, we have been enclosed in a concrete vault, doors slamming ominously, water aggressively rushing in, boats rising or falling like mushrooms in a food processor, and arms straining at lines, hoping not to smack the glossy shine of the two-million-dollar yacht under the censorious gaze of the French owner. When the doors are opened, the many boats shuffle out, with the whole process being repeated a couple of miles - or kilometers I should say - later.
Montreal and Quebec City were impressively old and seemingly European. Their histories are very familiar to us now. Build a city out of wood, fight off the natives, then the whole thing burns down. Rebuild the city with stone. English/French/whoever comes along and blows it to smithereens. Build it again with thicker walls. Whoever lost the last war comes back and blows it away, again. Now, REALLY thick walls are built, and that is what we see today. Interestingly, the British won the last go-around in Quebec - provinces including Montreal and Quebec City - but everyone speaks French. If you lose a war, just ignore the conquerors, and everything goes back to normal.
Our Uber driver was from the Congo and spoke two dialects there - French and English in Montreal, and some German. Oh, and "just a bit" of Spanish. How the Quebecois knew by looking at you that you spoke only English, I don't know, but they did. One guy told me it was my hat. The French speakers switched quickly to English, but I often felt like I was being treated like a dull child. At least now I don't have to go to France, I feel like I've been there.
I've done little foreign travel in my 67 years, partly related to my job, and more so due to a reticence, real or imagined, to put up with the condescension of the locals in far flung places. My favorite foreign country by far is Canada (wild and crazy guy that I am) where most everyone, even the Frenchiest French, have been as accommodating and helpful as they can be. They are remarkably diverse people as well, without making a big deal out of it.
We are approaching 2,000 miles of travel, from Key West to way north and now moving south. We share appreciation with other boaters for the beautiful landscapes. But privately, as we would never diminish the lands of another, we know that nothing we have seen - the neon tropics of the Keys, the lush low country of the South, the pastels of the Chesapeake, the marvelous Hudson River Valley, the majesty of northern Canada - nothing compares to the forests and lakes and rivers, lovingly embraced by towering purple mountains, of the Seeley and Swan.
We are grateful for all we have seen, and for what we know we have.
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