WE PADDLE UP THE OTTAWA RIVER

It wasn’t long before I found myself, nose to the wind, perched on the bow of the canoe. The men dipped and swung their bright-bladed paddles while I called out “Strrrrrrroke!” Again and again, forty to sixty strokes per minute. “Strrrrrroke!”

The steersman, Jean Méchant, barked from his place in the back, “What a noisy chirring racket! Who brought that squirrel along? Was it you, Jean Paul?” He poked the middleman sitting in front of him.

“Mais non,” Jean Paul said, then nudged the middleman who sat next to him. “Perhaps it was Jean Luc.”

“Not me,” said Jean Luc. “Were we supposed to bring squirrels?”

“No!” everyone shouted at him.

Like me, Jean Luc was making his first trip as a voyageur. He couldn’t be expected to know everything!

“Maybe it was Jean Henri,” Jean Luc said, tapping the middleman in front of him with his paddle.

“Not me,” said middleman Jean Henri.

And so they went, along all three rows of middlemen:

It was not middleman Jean Jacques.

Not middleman Jean Claude.

Not Jean Louis, also a middleman.

Not even the bowman, Jean Gentille, who sat in the very front of the canoe to guide it. Unbeknownst to him, it was in his vest pocket that I had hidden.

From my perch on the bow, I tried to explain my goals and aspirations. “My name is Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge, and I am an adventurer. I long to explore the unexplored, discover the undiscovered, and taste the as yet untasted.”

“I hope he won’t be a nuisance,” said Jean Méchant from the back of the canoe.

“He’s only a squirrel,” said Jean Gentille.

I vowed to not be a nuisance. No, I certainly intended not to be, for what joy it was to feel the wind in my fur, to see the playful otters swimming by and the bright rings made by jumping fish. What a thrill to hear the slap of the beaver’s tail and the wild call of the loon. And what heaven to smell the spring blossoms and sun-warmed pine.

And oh, how I loved to sing!

The voyageurs also loved to sing.

“En roulant, ma boule roulant,” Jean Jacques, le chanteur (the singer) started us off.

“En roulant ma boule,” the others joined in.

They did their best, but this song about getting a ball rolling could be a bit repetitive. I tried to encourage them to put in a little flourish.

“En rrrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrrrrrrroulant, ma boule rrrrr-rrrrrrroulant!” I sang out. (Even the Frenchest of Frenchmen cannot roll his r’s like me. I can keep it up all day if I have to. Or even if I don’t.)

I scampered along the gunwale, encouraging each man to sing with more gusto. Perhaps this would make us go faster and we could overtake the other canoes in our brigade. This was my thinking, but the others didn’t seem to agree.

Some of the voyageurs covered their ears; others began swinging their paddles at me.

“That’s enough of that noise!” Jean Jacques yelped.

“Shoo!” said Jean Paul. He swatted at me with his cap.

“Va-t’en!” Jean Claude swiped at me with his paddle. “Go away!”

It was a wonder the entire canoe did not tip upside down.

And then I saw Jean Gentille motioning to his vest pocket. “Chut,” he whispered. “Hush! Jump inside!”

I did. And there I crouched, panting.

“Where did the little pest go?” Jean Jacques asked.

“I don’t care, as long as he’s gone,” I heard Jean Méchant say.

“What do we do now?” Jean Luc said.

“Paddle!” Jean Méchant barked. “And put your backs into it!”

“But,” Jean Claude asked, “where are the other canoes?”

The voices grew concerned.

“Are we lost?” they wondered.

“We were so busy with that pesky squirrel that we have gotten separated from our brigade!” Jean Paul said.

The part of the Ottawa River where we were paddling was a maze of islands and peninsulas, bays and inlets. It would take hours of paddling to find the others. If we could.

“Now what shall we do?” Jean Luc cried.

The voyageurs pulled the canoe to the shore and they all jumped out.

“It is the fault of that chattering rascal,” said Jean Méchant.

The others grumbled their agreement.

“If he hadn’t distracted us, we would still be following the others,” said Jean Jacques.

Sacrebleu! Oh, no! I thought. It was true. It was my fault. I wanted to set it right. But alas, what could I do? I, who was so small and insignificant?

But then I had an idea. I thought, I may not paddle. I may not cook. When we get to a portage, I may not carry much. But there is something at which I am very, very good.

I climbed out of Jean Gentille’s pocket and quickly found the highest pine tree in the entire wilderness. Up I ran, as fast as I could.

Below me, the river split into many glittering waterways, divided by a confusion of islands and peninsulas. But—there! What did I see in the distance? The flash of paddles and four canoes laid out like a dotted line across a map.

I chirred! I trilled! I rolled my r’s with great ferrrrrrrrrocity!

The voyageurs looked up at me.

“Is that the same squirrel?” said Jean Méchant. “It sounds like the one that recently caused us so much grief.”

Have I mentioned that sometimes these men were not very bright?

Ah, but Jean Gentille looked up at me with a smile on his face. He knew!

“Wait!” he said. “I think the little red one has found our brigade. I think that is what he is chattering about.”

“Found our brigade?” the others said. “How is that?”

“Why, he can see them, from his perch in the treetop.”

Meanwhile, I was practically doing head-stands up there—pointing with my paw, then my tail, then my entire body. When Jean Gentille whistled for me, down the tree I raced, over the boulders, up his trouser leg and onto his shoulder.

“Can you show us the way, little one?” said Jean Gentille.

“Oui! Oui! Oui! Oui!” I chirred, and “Oui! Oui! Oui! Oui!” again, in case they missed it the first time.

Jean Gentille said to me, “You shall ride on the bow of the canoe and show us the way.”

“A squirrel? You are going to put your trust in a squirrel?” Jean Méchant said. “Ho ho! You are as nutty as he is!”

The others also seemed skeptical, but they climbed back into the canoe. We set off, with me on the bow pointing the way with my nose. I cheered enthusiastically when they steered the right way, and scolded with all my might when they steered the wrong way.

Soon we saw the bright, flashing paddles of the other canoes. We had found our brigade.

“Youpe!” cried my canoe-mates. “Yippee! Hip, hip, hoorah!”

And I joined them, crying, “Hoorrrrrrrrah,” leaning a bit heavily on the r’s, perhaps.

“Oh!” teased the voyageurs in the other canoes, when we caught up to them, “did the wittle boys get wost?” They threw back their heads and laughed.

“We always knew which way to go,” said Jean Henri.

“We were never really lost,” said Jean Claude.

“Good job, Le Rouge,” Jean Gentille whispered to me, shortening my name a bit.

Did the others not know it was I who had shown them the way? I? Me? Moi? Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge? Jean Pierre Little the Red, if you want a direct translation. Although perhaps Jean Pierre the Little Red is more musical. At least when it is spoken in French.

Ah well, what did I care? The wind ruffled my fur. And I sang. I sang at the top of my lungs! “C’est moi—it’s me! Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge of the Big Voice and mon bon ami—my best friend—Jean Gentille of the Big Heart.”