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Saguenay Geology The Saguenay River Geology[edit ] The geological origins of Saguenay Fjord National Park can be traced to the Grenville orogeny during the Precambrian era. This event is considered to be the beginnings to the Laurentian mountains . Around 200 million years ago, a rock basal complex between a north fault and a south fault collapsed, creating the Saguenay Graben . The graben was 250 kilometres (160 mi) long and 50 kilometres (31 mi) wide. During the last glacial period , the region was covered by ice sheets two to three kilometers deep. The ice sheets cut deep into the Saguenay graben, gouging the fjord in the process. The weight of the ice sheets also caused the region to sink. When the claciers melted around 10,000 years ago, the graben was flooded by seawater. The subsequent post-glacial rebound lifted the terrain, shaping the fjord valleys in the process. Saguenay Graben From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia I've always wondered about the Geology of the Saguenay. There's lots on the internet, this is from Wikipedia! Géologie Les origines géologiques du parc national du Fjord-du-Saguenay remontent à l'orogenèse de Grenville au cours de l'ère précambrienne. Cet événement est considéré comme le début des montagnes laurentiennes. Il y a environ 200 millions d'années, un complexe basal rocheux situé entre une faille nord et une faille sud s'est effondré, créant le graben du Saguenay. Le graben mesurait 250 kilomètres (160 mi) de long et 50 kilomètres (31 mi) de large. Au cours de la dernière période glaciaire, la région était recouverte de calottes glaciaires de deux à trois kilomètres de profondeur. Les calottes glaciaires ont entaillé profondément le graben du Saguenay, creusant ainsi le fjord. Le poids des calottes glaciaires a aussi causé l'affaissement de la région. Lors de la fonte des glaciers, il y a environ 10 000 ans, le graben a été inondé par l'eau de mer. Le rebond postglaciaire qui a suivi a soulevé le terrain, façonnant ainsi les vallées des fjords. The Saguenay Graben is a rift valley or graben in the geological Grenville Province of southern Quebec , Canada . It is an elongated flat-bottomed basin 250 km (155 mi) long and 50 km (31 mi) wide, bounded by normal faults running parallel to its length. Formation of the Saguenay Graben The time of formation of the faults related to the Saugenay Graben is still under debate because it is difficult to accurately measure the age of faulting. Evidence suggests it was either the opening of the Iapetus Ocean (600-400 Ma), or the opening of the Atlantic Ocean (195-170 Ma) that caused the faulting. During the opening of one of these oceans, fragmentation of the landmass occurred creating two fault planes, one to the North and one to the South. The resulting bedrock between dropped down along the normal faults, creating the Saguenay Graben. The extent of these faults are only known at the surface and therefore their extension and shape at depth is unknown. The faults associated with the Saguenay Graben have been the source for earthquakes , including the 1988 Saguenay earthquake . Glaciations The area was covered by ice sheets several times throughout the Pleistocene . The graben was located relatively parallel to the ice sheet movement and therefore caused it to become a preferred travel pathway for ice. The glaciers cut into the graben and widened it in some places as well as making it considerable deeper in others. After the retreat of the final ice sheet, there was considerable isostatic rebound . The total amount of rebound varied from 140 m on the north side and 120 m on the south side. Present day geography The lowlands within the graben have an altitude of between 100 and 200 m. To the east there is the Kenogami threshold which is characterized by having an altitude of 200 to 260 m. This threshold splits the graben into two physiographic regions; the Lac Saint-Jean region to the west and the Saguenay region to the east. The plateau around the Graben is between 200 and 800 m in altitude. The Saguenay River as well as the Lac Saint-Jean are both contained within the Saguenay Graben. Le Graben du Saguenay est une vallée du Rift ou graben située dans la province géologique de Grenville, dans le sud du Québec, au Canada. Il s'agit d'un bassin allongé à fond plat de 250 km (155 mi) de long et 50 km (31 mi) de large, délimité par des failles normales parallèles à sa longueur. Formation du Graben du Saguenay L'époque de formation des failles liées au graben de Saugenay fait encore l'objet de débats, car il est difficile de mesurer avec précision l'âge des failles. Les preuves suggèrent que c'est soit l'ouverture de l'océan Iapetus (600-400 Ma), soit l'ouverture de l'océan Atlantique (195-170 Ma) qui a causé la faille. Lors de l'ouverture de l'un de ces océans, la fragmentation de la masse continentale s'est produite, créant deux plans de failles, un au nord et un au sud. Le substrat rocheux résultant s'est effondré le long des failles normales, créant le Graben du Saguenay. L'étendue de ces failles n'est connue qu'en surface et donc leur extension et leur forme en profondeur sont inconnues. Les failles associées au graben du Saguenay ont causé des tremblements de terre, dont le tremblement de terre du Saguenay en 1988. Glaciations La région a été recouverte de calottes glaciaires à plusieurs reprises tout au long du Pléistocène. Le graben était situé relativement parallèlement au mouvement de la calotte glaciaire et en faisait donc une voie de déplacement privilégiée pour la glace. Les glaciers ont creusé le fossé et l'ont élargi à certains endroits et l'ont rendu considérablement plus profond à d'autres. Après le retrait de la dernière calotte glaciaire, un rebond isostatique considérable s'est produit. La quantité totale de rebond variait entre 140 m du côté nord et 120 m du côté sud. Géographie actuelle Les basses terres du graben ont une altitude comprise entre 100 et 200 m. À l'est se trouve le seuil de Kenogami qui se caractérise par une altitude de 200 à 260 m. Ce seuil divise le graben en deux régions physiographiques ; la région du Lac Saint-Jean à l'ouest et la région du Saguenay à l'est. Le plateau autour du Graben est situé entre 200 et 800 m d'altitude. La rivière Saguenay ainsi que le lac Saint-Jean sont tous deux contenus dans le graben du Saguenay.

Été à Tadoussac Summer 1920-1940 Page 7 of 7 Please help! If you have more photos If you have names that I don't have If you have notes I could add If you were there yourself! tomfevans@icloud.com S'il vous plaît aider! Si vous avez plus de photos Si vous avez des noms que je n'ai pas Si vous avez des notes que je pourrais ajouter Si vous y étiez! tomfevans@icloud.com NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS (More) Faces of Tadoussac (Plus) Visages de Tadoussac 1922 Lewis Evans with his mother Emily (Bethune) Evans Jim and Jean Alexander with grandparents Nan (Rhodes) Williams and Lennox Williams, and with their mother Gertrude (Williams) Alexander 1925 Jack Wallace, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Jean Alexander (Aylan-Parker), Jim Alexander Grace Scott 1925 Maye Hudspeth, Kae Evans Isobel (Billy) Morewood 1926 Left Ann Stevenson (Dewart) Right Elizabeth Stevenson (O'Neill) 1926 Erie Languedoc in her garden -- Note! -- Stevenson cottage being built in the background Smut the dog, Emily (Bethune) Evans, Kae Evans, the Stevenson sisters, Elizabeth (O'Neill) (note camera), Maggie (Reilley), Ann (Dewart), May Carrington Smith, Nan Gale at Evans camp at Cap a Jack 1924-25 Dorothy (Rhodes) Evans, Trevor Evans, Phoebe Evans (Skutezky), Ainslie Evans (Stephen) 1927-28 with Trevor Evans Jr 1931 Evans family with Alfred Hovington, Kate Von Iffland, and at right Maye Hudspeth 1931 Evans family with Tim Evans (baby) Kate Von Iffland, Muriel Evans (standing), Monica Rhodes, Betty Morewood (Evans) Lennox Williams with his wife Nan (Rhodes) Williams and his son Sydney Williams 1933 Jean and Jim Alexander, Syndey Williams, Gertrude and General Ron Alexander, Percival Tudor-Hart, Jack Wallace seated Mary (Williams) Wallace, Michael Wallace, Catherine Tudor-Hart, Lennox and Nan Williams Jack Wallace, ?, Betty Morewood (Evans), Bill Morewood, Michael Wallace, ?, ?, Phoebe Evans (Skutezky), Ainslie Evans (Stephen), ? Mary (Williams) Wallace Phoebe, Ainslie, Susie Russell, and Trevor Evans 1934 Iso (Price) & Guy & Ann (Van Alystyn) Smith Elizabeth (Stevenson) and Lionel O'Neill Helen Neilson Maggie (Stevenson) Reilley Catherine (Rhodes) and Percival Tudor-Hart Coosie Price The Alexander family, Gertrude (Williams), Jim, Jean, and Gen Ron Alexander Amatuer Theatre in the shed behind the upper Evans house Standing - Jack Wallace, Jim Alexander, Ron Alexander, Jack Wallace Mary Wallace, Nan Williams, Jean Alexander, Nan Wallace, ?, Lennox Williams, Gertrude Alexander Sydney Williams, Jim Williams, Susan Williams (Webster), ?, Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Michael Wallace Barbara Hampson (Alexander/Campbell) 1936 Jack Wallace, Jim and Jean Alexander, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Michael Wallace, Joan, Susan, and Jim Williams 1936 Standing Frank Morewood, Jim & Gertrude Alexander, ?, Sydney Williams Middle Nan Williams, Henry and Helen Price, Lennox Williams, Enid (Price) and Susan Williams Front Nan Wallace, Joan Williams, Mary Wallace, Ron Alexander 1937 Bill Morewood, Ainslie Evans, Billy Morewood, Jean Alexander, Betty Morewood (Evans) ???, Joan and Susan Williams 1937 Betty Morewood (Evans) and her parents Frank Morewood and Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood The first summer for the new cottage Le premier été pour le nouveau chalet Robin Molson, ?, ?, Verity Molson, Joan Williams (Ballantyne) Enid (Price) Williams with her children Jim, Susan, and Joan Williams and cousins Pam and Ann Smith Pam Smith (McCarter) 1937 Prices, Smiths and Williams Nan Wallace, Peggy T., Betty Morewood, Susie Russell, Joan Shaw, Mary Del Robertson, Mary Fowler, Jean Alexander, Jean? Bar Hampson, Helen Davis, Peggie Durnford, Mabel Warburton, Ainslie Evans Mary Hampson (Price), Ted Price, Mary Fowler Nan Wallace (Leggat) Jack Molson, Doris (Carrington Smith) Molson, Arthur Price Susan Williams, Ann Smith, Joan and Sheila Williams, Pam Smith, Jim Williams Bill Stephen Verity Molson, Eve, Ann and Pam Smith 1941 Sheila Williams (Campbell) and Penny Smith (Younger) PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE La FIN de L'été à Tadoussac 1920-1940 Tu l'as fait! Bien joué! 200 Photos Mais pas la fin Continuez ... >>> The END of Summer in Tadoussac 1920-1940 You made it! Well Done! 200 Photos But not the end Keep going...>>>

PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE Été à Tadoussac Summer 1920-1940 Page 2 of 7 The Summer Cottages Les Chalets d'été I count 17 summer cottages (?) in the 1930's By the 1960's there were about 25, today 45. Tivoli Stevenson (built in the 20's) Amberly Tudor-Hart Ivanhoe Windward (built 1936) Barn Brynhyfryd (old one burned circa 1932, rebuilt) Spruce Cliff Bailey Evans Bayview Dufferin House Fletcher Price Radford and Cap a Jack Je compte 16 chalets d'été Dans les années 1960 il y avait 25 Aujourd'hui environ 45! Ann Stevenson (Dewart), Elizabeth Stevenson (O'Neill), Margaret Stevenson (Reilley) Stevenson Cottage built in 1926 Ivanhoe front porch View from the hill behind Summer House with Dorothy Rhodes (Evans) and Phoebe Evans (Skutezky) and Ainslie Evans (Stephen) and the shed out back, no longer there. Windward built in 1936 The Barn Lennox Williams and his dog Brynhyfryd Burned circa 1932 Rebuilt 1933 Spruce Cliff Bailey Evans Cottage Lewis Evans and his dog Sandy Bayview Cottage Dufferin House Fletcher Cottage Radford in Anse a L'Eau circa 1926, R Lewis Evans with his gun, May Carrington Smith, Nan Gale, Ann (Dewart) Stevenson, Maggie(Reilley) Stevenson at Cap a Jack 10 miles up the Saguenay PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE

LE MIROIR Stories/Histoires Le Miroir is published by the Municipality of Tadoussac, and they have asked for some photos and stories that illustrate the fascinating history of Tadoussac. As they come out they will be posted on this page in both languages! Le Miroir est publié par la Municipalité de Tadoussac et a demandé des photos et des histoires qui illustrent l'histoire fascinante de Tadoussac. À leur arrivée, ils seront affichés sur cette page dans les deux langues! UN PETIT PEIGNE CHEZ CID! Text from the book "Tides of Tadoussac" By R Lewis Evans Can you identify the people in this photo? In front of the door, Beth Dewart, Maggie Reilley, Geoff Izard, and at the right end MARIE CID POUVEZ-VOUS NOUS AIDER À IDENTIFIER LES PERSONNES SUR CETTE PHOTOS? À NOTER QUE MARIE CID SE TROUVE À L’EXTRÊME DROITE SUR LA PHOTO. We all know La Boheme in the middle of Tadoussac but some of us remember it fondly as the Marchand General du Pierre Cid. Pierre Cid was a Syrian who immigrated to Canada and settled in Tadoussac and after his death, three of his children, Joe, Marie, and Alexandrine ran the store right into their old age, living in the back of the building. Joe was a delightful man and ran the place. Marie, suffering from Parkinson's Disease, was small and shook constantly, but she was lovely to everyone, knew the price of everything in the store and could add in the tax in seconds. Alexandrine was quite the opposite. Not a believer in the idea that “the customer is always right,” she did not suffer fools gladly. Back in the days that the Canada Steamship Lines owned the Hotel Tadoussac the President of CSL came to stay at the hotel. The hotel staff were terrified. Criticism from the great man could cost them their jobs and they worked very hard to make sure everything was perfect. During his stay he decided to go play golf, and on his way there stopped his flashy big Cadillac outside the Marchand General. In he proudly walked in his canary yellow golfing outfit like a little Napoleon, looked at Alexandrine sternly, and said, “Je veux une peigne.” She made some grunt that sounded like a seal, shuffled off in her bedroom slippers into the gloom at the back of the store and returned with a used ice-cream bucket full of combs. He looked through them and said, “They're not very big, are they?” She looked him in the eye and replied in a voice that could be heard throughout the store, “Big enough for you. You don't have much hair anyway!” Tout le monde connait Le Café Bohème situé au coeur de Tadoussac, mais certains d’entre- nous s’en rappellent encore comme du Marchand Général Pierre Cid. Pierre Cid était un Syrien ayant immigré au Canada et qui s’était établi à Tadoussac. Après sa mort, trois de ses enfants, Joe, Marie et Alexandrine, ont pris la relève de la petite entreprise familiale jusqu’à leurs vieux jours, vivant dans la partie arrière du bâtiment. Joe était un homme charmant et était celui en charge du magasin. Marie, atteinte de la maladie de Parkinson, était petite et souffrait de tremblements constants. Elle était aimable avec tout le monde, connaissait les prix de tout ce qui se vendait en magasin et pouvait faire le calcul des taxes en quelques secondes seulement. Alexandrine était tout le contraire. N’adhérant pas à l’adage populaire voulant que le client aie toujours raison, elle n’avait que faire des imbéciles. Du temps où la Canada Steamship Lines était propriétaire de l’Hôtel Tadoussac, le président de la compagnie vint résider à l’Hôtel. Le personnel en était terrifié. Une mauvaise critique du grand patron pourrait leur coûter leur emploi et ils travaillèrent donc très fort afin de s’assurer que tout soit parfait. Lors de son séjour, monsieur le Président décida d’aller jouer au golf et en route, arrêta sa rutilante Cadillac devant le Marchand Général. Vêtu d’un habit de golf jaune canari, il entra dans le magasin d’un pas fier tel un petit Napoléon, adressa un regard sévère à Alexandrine et dit: « Je veux un peigne! ». Elle émit un petit grognement semblable à celui d’un phoque, trottina, pantoufles aux pieds, dans la pénombre de l’arrière-boutique et revint quelques instants plus tard avec un vieux pot de crème glacée rempli de peignes. Le Président y jeta un oeil et dit: «Ils ne sont pas très gros vos peignes.» Alexandrine le regarda droit dans les yeux et lui répondit d’une voix suffisamment forte pour être entendue à travers tout le magasin : «Ils sont bien assez gros pour vous. De toute façon, ce n’est pas comme si vous aviez beaucoup de cheveux !» Pierre Cid?

Tadoussac Historical Photos and Stories - Buildings Disappeared - Batiments Disparu Bâtiments qui ont disparu Buildings that have disappeared La PISCINE D'EAU SALÉE a été construite en même temps que le nouvel Hôtel Tadoussac, en 1942. De nombreuses personnes se souviennent de s'être baignées dans la piscine étant enfants. La photo est probablement une photo de tourisme de CSL. La piscine a été remplacée par la piscine actuelle devant l'hôtel, vers 1958. La charpente en ciment est toujours là, comblée et utilisée pour les tables de pique-nique et la biblio-plage de Tadoussac. The SALT WATER POOL was built at the same time as the new Hotel Tadoussac, in 1942. Numerous people remember swimming in the pool as children. The photo is probably a CSL tourism photo. The pool was replaced by the present pool in front of the hotel, around 1958. The cement frame is still there, filled in and used for picnic tables and the Tadoussac Beach Library. from a Williams photo album 1950's There's a video! on Youtube/ReelLife (Sorry ads...) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmRgMGTP2FQ look at 3:35 1.5 minutes Il y a une vidéo ! sur Youtube/ReelLife (Désolé annonces...) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmRgMGTP2FQ regardez à 3:35 1,5 minutes Vers les années 1940, la piscine semble en construction Circa 1940's the pool look like it is under construction Plus tard, des huttes de changement ont été ajoutées Later, change huts have been added Comments (Facebook) Finally, I am happy to see this swimming pool, in operation! Magnificent ! I had never seen this mythic swimming pool My brothers and I loved that pool By 1958 we were signed up to use the present pool I remember when it was empty with a lot of broken glass, 1960? That is where I learned to swim ... maybe one of those little kids? I remember this pool but thought I imagined it. We had a nice thing in Tadoussac Ho! The site of the biblio-plage! Definitely a spot predestined for projects that are out of the ordinary! Wow beautiful this pool and also I see the cruise ships arriving at the dock beautiful memory My parents met there - so the story goes ... at the pool? Yes. At the pool. Dad playfully tossed her bathing cap into the bay. A study had been carried out to assess the feasibility of bringing it back into office but the structure would have needed too many repairs. It should come back, it is great a little idea for the new mayor We should create a new one. Seawater and heated, it would be an attraction for Tadoussac If we managed to operate a seawater swimming pool in 1950, 71 years later what is stopping us from taking up the challenge? Thank you for this photo, for a long time I have imagined this saltwater pool ... I see it finally! We were born in the wrong era Commentaires (Facebook) Enfin, je suis content de voir cette piscine, en fonction ! Magnifique ! Je n'avais jamais vu cette piscine mythique Mes frères et moi avons adoré cette piscine En 1958, nous nous sommes inscrits pour utiliser la piscine actuelle Je me souviens quand c'était vide avec de verre brisé, 1960 ? C'est là que j'ai appris à nager... peut-être un de ces petits gamins?? Je me rappelle de cette piscine mais je pensais que j'avais imaginé. On s'est bien amusé à Tadoussac Ho ! Le site de la biblio-plage! Décidément un spot pré-destiné aux projets qui sortent de l'ordinaire ! Wow magnifique cette piscine et aussi je vois le bateaux de croisière qui arrivent au quai beau souvenir Mes parents se sont rencontrés là-bas, donc l'histoire se passe... à la piscine ? Oui. À la piscine. Papa a joyeusement jeté son bonnet de bain dans la baie. Une étude avait été menée pour évaluer la faisabilité de sa remise en fonction mais la structure aurait nécessité trop de réparations. Ça devrait revenir comme ça c'était super une petite idée pour le nouveau maire On devrait en creer une nouvelle. À l’eau de mer et chauffée, elle serait toute une attraction pour Tadoussac Si on a réussi à exploiter une piscine à l'eau de mer en 1950, 71 ans plus tard qu'est-ce qui nous empêche de relever le défi? Merci pour cette photo, depuis le temps que j'imagine cette piscine d'eau salée... Je la vois enfin! On est nées dans la mauvaise ère Left and above, 1950-1960, below 2022 4-5' more sand on the beach!! 4-5' de sable en plus sur la plage !! RESTAURANT de GOLFE Circa 1940 & 50's Un ancien restaurant de Tadoussac à côté du quai dirigé par Johnny Audet. Ses filles ont épousé Simard, Deschênes, Harvey, Gagné, il a également eu un fils Joseph dont la femme travaillait également au restaurant. C'était autrefois notre spot de billard préféré. Ce restaurant auquel j'ai beaucoup fréquenté dans les années 1950 était très occupé par les équipages des lignes de Canadian Steamship et nos armateurs. (Paulin Hovington) GULF RESTAURANT Circa 1940's & 50's An early Tadoussac restaurant beside the wharf run by Johnny Audet. His daughters married Simard, Deschenes, Harvey, Gagné, he also had a son Joseph whose the wife also worked at the restaurant. Used to be our favorite pool spot. This restaurant I attended a lot in the 1950's was very busy with the Canadian Steamship lines crews and our shipmen.. (Paulin Hovington) Il y avait aussi une cabane de pêcheur autour du coin sur le point où nous avons acheté du saumon! La dalle de ciment est toujours là. There was also a fisherman's hut around the corner on the point where we bought salmon! The cement slab is still there. HOTEL TADOUSSAC The largest building to have disappeared in Tadoussac is the Hotel Tadoussac! It was originally built in 1864. It was lengthened and then towers were added in about 1900. It was demolished in about 1942 to make way for the present Hotel Tadoussac. Le plus grand bâtiment à avoir disparu à Tadoussac est l'Hôtel Tadoussac! Il a été construit en 1864. Il a été rallongé, puis des tours ont été ajoutées vers 1900. Il a été démoli vers 1942 pour faire place à l’hôtel Tadoussac. Original Hotel original 1864-1900 Expanded Hotel élargie 1900-1942 Hotel Demolition 1942 THE HYDROELECTRIC POWER STATION The rebuilding of the hotel in 1942 likely provided an impetus for the town to build its hydro station. By then many Québec towns and villages smaller than Tadoussac and beyond the grids of the major power companies had electricity, so no doubt local residents would have been agitating for power for some years. The HydroElectric Power Station at Moulin a Baude, with water coming down a large pipe from the dam on the Baude River. Built in the early 1940's, it was enlarged to accommodate a second turbine and generator in 1954. The original station had one generator of about 200 kilowatts. A 450-kilowatt unit was added as demand for power grew. (Thanks to Gary Long, retired geographer in Sault Ste. Marie, studies the history of early hydroelectric development in Canada) Paulin Hovington: My grandpa Noel Brisson developed this electrical power and built the stone house at that time. LA CENTRALE HYDROELECTRIQUE La reconstruction de l'hôtel en 1942 a probablement incité la ville à construire sa centrale hydroélectrique. À l’époque, beaucoup de villes et de villages québécois plus petits que Tadoussac et au-delà des réseaux des grandes entreprises d’électricité disposaient de l’électricité. Les habitants de la région auraient sans doute agité depuis quelques années. La centrale hydroélectrique de Moulin a Baude, avec de l’eau descendant par un grand tuyau du barrage sur la rivière Baude. Construite au début des années 1940, elle a été agrandie pour accueillir une deuxième turbine et un groupe électrogène en 1954. La centrale originale avait un groupe électrogène d'environ 200 kilowatts. Une unité de 450 kilowatts a été ajoutée à la demande croissante d’électricité. (Merci à Gary Long, géographe à la retraite à Sault Ste. Marie, étudie l'histoire des premiers aménagements hydroélectriques au Canada) Paulin Hovington: Mon grand-papa Noel Brisson a déveloper ce pouvoir électrique et a construit la maison de pierres à cette occasion. A pipeline approximately 225 metres long ran from the dam to the powerhouse. The head of water on the turbines was 50.3 metres (165 feet). The Québec government nationalized electricity in 1963, and by 1966, Hydro-Québec had apparently closed the Moulin-a-Baude hydro station. Un pipeline d'environ 225 mètres de long reliait le barrage à la centrale. La tête d’eau des turbines était de 50,3 mètres (165 pieds). Le gouvernement du Québec nationalisa l'électricité en 1963 et, en 1966, Hydro-Québec avait apparemment fermé la centrale hydroélectrique de Moulin-à-Baude. In the photo below there is a Sawmill! More photos of the sawmill on the "Dunes" page. (click the arrow) Sur la photo ci-dessous il y a une scierie ! Plus de photos de la scierie sur la page "Dunes". (cliquez sur la flèche) POINTE ROUGE AND JESUIT GARDENS between Pointe Rouge and the Clay Cliffs circa1950 POINTE ROUGE ET DES JARDINS DES JÉSUITES entre Pointe Rouge et les falaises d'argile There was a navigation beacon on Pointe Rouge, probably circa 1900 Il y avait une balise de navigation sur Pointe Rouge, probablement vers 1900 Today Aujourd'hui Lionel and Elizabeth O'Neill FIRST NATIONS This drawing must be very old, showing native teepees on the plateau where Dufferin House now stands, and the small church and the Hudson's Bay Post in the background. The hotel is not built, maybe 1840. PREMIÈRES NATIONS Ce dessin doit être très ancienne, montrant des tipis indigènes sur le plateau où Dufferin House est maintenant, et la petite église et la Hudson's Bay Post sur le fond. L'hôtel n'est pas construit, peut-être 1840. 1887 Theodore Gagne, Huron of Loretteville opened a boutique of Amerindian souveniers near the wharf 1887 Theodore Gagne, Huron de Loretteville a ouvert une boutique de souvenirs amérindiens près du quai THE BEACH Many buildings on the beach have come and gone, not surprising considering the 17 foot tidal range, and the ice in the winter. Below, late 1860's, the Hotel Tadoussac, and the Hudson's Bay Post in front of the hotel. Boatbuilding on the beach, only one house on the main street, no church, no Cid store. LA PLAGE De nombreux bâtiments sur la plage sont venus et ont disparu, ce qui n'est pas surprenant compte tenu de l'amplitude des marées de 17 pieds et de la glace en hiver. Ci-dessous, fin des années 1860, l'Hôtel Tadoussac, et le Poste de la Baie d'Hudson devant l'hôtel. Construction de bateaux sur la plage, une seule maison sur la rue principale, pas d'église, pas de magasin Cid. Circa 1880's Circa 1890's Circa 1920's These boathouses were there until about the 1960's, my father Lewis Evans used the one on the right. Ces hangars à bateaux étaient là jusqu'à environ les années 1960, mon père Lewis Evans a utilisé l'un sur la droite. Robin Molson When I was a kid my Dad had an old yawl, the "Bonne Chance" on a buoy on the bay. We often parked the car at the top by the old church and came down those stairs to the beach, to get at the punt. There was a chain around the yard at the top made entirely of bottle caps strung together, 1000's of them. A few years ago (late 1990's?) there was a fundraising effort to buy the building which was very successful, and the building was demolished. Quand j'étais jeune, mon père avait un vieux yawl, la "Bonne Chance" sur une bouée dans la baie. Nous avons souvent garé la voiture au sommet pres de la vieille église et sommes descendus les escaliers à la plage. Il y avait une chaîne autour de la cour en haut entièrement en capsules de bouteilles enfilées, 1000 d'entre eux. Il y a quelques années (fin des années 1990?) il y avait un effort de collecte de fonds pour acheter le bâtiment qui était très réussie, et le bâtiment a été démoli. 1950 the house is one floor raised on stilts against the tide. Below the house is growing! Also the remains of the swimming pool. 1950 la maison est d'un étage sur pilotis. En dessous la maison s'agrandit ! Aussi les restes de la piscine. David & Lois Evans Artiste inconnu ! These cottages perched on the school wall for a brief period in the 1960's. Below that's Alan Evans tying his sailing dingy to the buoy, demonstrating safe boating technique. The punt was built by Lewis Evans, it had wheels to pull it up the beach. Ces chalets perchés sur le mur de l'école pour une brève période dans les années 1960. Ci-dessous, c'est Alan Evans attachant sa lugubre de la voile à la bouée, ce qui démontre la technique de la sécurité nautique. Le 'punt' a été construite par Lewis Evans, il avait des roues à tirer vers le haut de la plage. HOUSES ON INDIAN ROCK Pilot House is visible above on the right, it's the only one of these houses still in place. MAISONS SUR LE POINT D'ISLET Maison de Pilote est visible en haut à droite, il est le seul de ces maisons encore en place. Late 1800's Note from Lewis Evans: Les Maisons sur Pointe de l'Islet La plus proche de Pilot House, Johnnie Hovington, Capitaine de "Jamboree", Nicolas, Donat Therrien, Morneau Quand CSL les a expulsés en 1911 ils ont reconstruit autour de la cale sèche et derrière la cale sèche Dominique Desbiens Souvenir de Tadou!! Maisons de (squatters) vers 1900. Parmie les familles residentes de l'Islet, Maher, Caron, Boulianne, Gagnon; il y avait la Famille Morneau de mes Ancetres du coté de ma Grand Maman Maternelle (Florence Martel) sa Maman était une Morneau qui fesait partie de ces Familles qui furent expropriées (expulsées) graduellement entre 1890 et 1920. Ceux-ci partirent s'établirent aux Milles-Vaches et d'autres a S-C, Bergeronne, Escoumins Houses at the top of the hill, 1890's. Possibly one of these houses was moved into the park, now known as "Tivoli". Maisons en haut de la colline, 1890's. Peut-être l'une de ces maisons a été déplacé dans le parc, maintenant connu sous le nom "Tivoli". Rhodes Cottage Brynhyfryd, Tadoussac On Rue des Pionniers, built 1861, burned in 1932 and replaced the same year Rue des Pionniers, construit 1861, brûlé en 1932 et a remplacé la même année Rhodes Cottage Page Click/Cliquez Hudson's Bay Post, Tadoussac In front of the hotel, built about 1821, demolished about 1870 En face de l'hôtel, construit vers 1821, démoli vers 1870 Hudson's Bay Post Page Click/Cliquez Radford House, Tadoussac Built in the mid-1800's, enlarged in the 1870's, burned in 1932, home of Joseph Radford Construit au milieu des années 1800, agrandie dans les années 1870, brûlé en 1932, la maison de Joseph Radford Radford House Page Click/Cliquez 79

Mary Elizabeth (Minnie) Rhodes 1857-1942 & Henry Francis (Harry) Morewood 1855-1916 NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS This page under construction

Photos Historique Tadoussac 1860-1900 Tadoussac The oldest Photographs Les plus anciennes Photographies Photography was invented about 1839, and Tadoussac was a popular subject for well-know professional photographers such as William Notman (father and son) and Livernois from the 1860's. This page is a collection of the early photos, before personal cameras were invented (the first Kodak camera was 1888). The 1860's was a busy time in Tadoussac. The first summer residences were built in the early 1860's. The Tadoussac Hotel, the future Cid store, and the row of 5 houses on the main street were built in 1864. The Protestant Chapel was built in 1867. The old Hudson's Bay Post was on the lawn in front of the Hotel until 1870, which helps with figuring out the dates of the photos! Notice most of the trees have been cut all around Tadoussac! DATES may not be exact, a list of key dates may be found at the bottom of the CONTENTS page (please send dates!) https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com Thanks to McCord Museum, Hotel Tadoussac, BAnQ, and everyone who collects and loves old photographs! La photographie a été inventée vers 1839 et Tadoussac était un sujet prisé par des photographes professionnels reconnus tels que William Notman (père et fils) et Livernois dès les années 1860. Cette page est une collection des premières photos, avant l'invention des appareils photo personnels (le premier appareil photo Kodak date de 1888). Les années 1860 furent une période occupée à Tadoussac. Les premières résidences d'été ont été construites au début des années 1860. L'Hôtel Tadoussac, le futur magasin Cid, et la rangée de 5 maisons sur la rue principale ont été construits en 1864. La Chapelle protestante a été construite en 1867. L'ancien Poste de la Baie d'Hudson était sur la pelouse devant l'Hôtel jusqu'en 1870, ce qui aide à déterminer les dates des photos ! Remarquez que la plupart des arbres ont été coupés tout autour de Tadoussac! Les DATES peuvent ne pas être exactes, une liste des dates clés peut être trouvée au bas de la page CONTENU (veuillez envoyer les dates!) https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com Merci au Musée McCord, à l'Hôtel Tadoussac, à BAnQ et à tous ceux qui collectionnent et aiment les photographies anciennes ! 1860-1900 Maybe before the Hotel was built? Peut-être avant la construction de l'hôtel ? Hotel built 1864 Five Houses on Main Street built 1865 Powel/Bailey House not built in the first photo, but it is in the second photo Hudson's Bay Post is in these photos, it was demolished ~1870 Geology! With the lack of trees the different historical sea levels can be seen, with a "hanging beach" above the town, which would be level with the upper sand dunes to the east of town. Hôtel construit en 1864 Cinq maisons sur la rue Main construites en 1865 Powel/Bailey House n'est pas construit sur la première photo, mais il est sur la deuxième photo Hudson's Bay Post est sur ces photos, il a été démoli vers 1870 Géologie! Avec le manque d'arbres, les différents niveaux historiques de la mer peuvent être vus, avec une "plage suspendue" au-dessus de la ville, qui serait au niveau des dunes de sable supérieures à l'est de la ville. HUDSON'S BAY POST demolished ~1870 <<<Hanging Beach Powel/Bailey House Cote Ida Hovington Stairs Rectory Evans/Beattie Houses on the beach and a boat being built House on Main Street (right side, now Auberge Galouine) Still 1860's Maisons sur la plage et un bateau en construction Maison sur la rue Main (côté droit, maintenant Auberge Galouine) Toujours des années 1860 Joseph Hovington 1792-1878 Joseph Hovington, ancêtre de tous les Hovington du Québec, est né à Durham, en Angleterre, en 1792. Il est arrivé à Québec où il a été immédiatement embauché par la Compagnie de la Baie d'Hudson. Son travail consistait à commander la goélette chargée de transporter les fourrures des différents postes de traite jusqu'à Tadoussac, et de livrer, en échange, des marchandises et des provisions. Il était également responsable de la surveillance du poste de traite ; c'est lui qui tirait le canon chaque fois qu'un bateau entrait dans le port. À la fermeture de la compagnie en 1859, il a décidé de rester à Tadoussac. Il y était déjà bien établi, car une partie du terrain entre l'hôtel et la cale sèche lui appartenait, qu'il partageait avec ses fils. Il a ensuite travaillé pour la compagnie Price comme pilote sur le Saguenay pendant une dizaine d'années. En 1864, il a participé à la construction de l'hôtel de Tadoussac et en 1866 à celle de la chapelle protestante. Joseph est considéré comme le pionnier de Tadoussac. Ses nombreux descendants peuplent le Québec et sont mêlés à presque toutes les familles de Tadoussac. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve Joseph Hovington, ancestor of all the Hovingtons of Quebec, was born in Durham, England in 1792. He arrived in Quebec City where he was immediately hired by the Hudson's Bay Company. His job consisted of commanding the schooner responsible for transporting furs from the various trading posts to Tadoussac, and delivering, in exchange, trade goods and supplies. He was also responsible for monitoring the Trading Post; it was he who fired the cannon each time a ship entered the port. When the company closed in 1859, he decided to stay in Tadoussac. He was already well established there, as part of the land between the hotel and the drydock was his property, which he shared with his sons. He then worked for the Price Company as a pilot on the Saguenay for about ten years. In 1864, he participated in the construction of the Tadoussac Hotel and in 1866 in the construction of the Protestant chapel. Joseph is considered the pioneer of Tadoussac. His numerous descendants populate Quebec and are intermingled with almost all of Tadoussac's families. One more house on the beach! Une maison de plus sur la plage ! Chapelle de Tadoussac - rectangular windows were replaced with nicer windows, there doesn't seem to be a graveyard yet, still 1860's Chapelle de Tadoussac - les fenêtres rectangulaires ont été remplacées par de plus belles fenêtres, il ne semble pas encore y avoir de cimetière, toujours des années 1860 In the 1860's the Price Sawmill at Anse à L'Eau had been closed for more than 10 years. Below is a 'colourized' photo. Many other photos of Anse à L'Eau at https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/anse-a-l-eau Dans les années 1860, la scierie Price à l'Anse à l'Eau était fermée depuis plus de 10 ans. Ci-dessous une photo "colorisée". Beaucoup d'autres photos de l'Anse à L'Eau à https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/anse-a-l-eau CIrca 1860's, the future George Hotel, some new houses, and the Radford House. The lake is much smaller than today, many years before a dam was built. Vers les années 1860, le futur George Hotel, quelques nouvelles maisons et la Radford House. Le lac est beaucoup plus petit qu'aujourd'hui, bien des années avant la construction d'un barrage. The BRIDGE over the ravine is very interesting. Le PONT sur le ravin est très intéressant. A peine étions-nous montés dans la voiture de l'hôtel que nous nous trouvions en train de traverser au grand galop un pont de planches branlant. Les vieilles dames hurlaient de frayeur, tandis que notre Jean, d'une voix tonitruante, nous criait : « Il fait très noir ce soir, si vous voyez où vous êtes, vous faites peur ! Évidemment, ce cocher distingué qui arborait avec tant de désinvolture son vieux manteau miteux devait être natif de l'endroit. Dufferin House (left) was built in 1873 La maison Dufferin (à gauche) a été construite en 1873 circa 1880's some houses have been built on Pointe d'Islet Below a close-up of one of the houses vers 1880 quelques maisons ont été construites sur la Pointe d'Islet Ci-dessous un gros plan d'une des maisons Circa 1880's, my ancestors on the lawn of the Rhodes cottage, many more photos on another page https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/rhodes-cottage-1 This photo is on a glass plate, there are some cracks and some pieces missing! My G-G-Grandmother Anne Dunn Rhodes in black, and William Rhodes is in the third photo, the only man! Also a baby carriage! Circa 1880's, mes ancêtres sur la pelouse du cottage Rhodes, beaucoup plus de photos sur une autre page https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/rhodes-cottage-1 Cette photo est sur une plaque de verre, il y a quelques craquelures et quelques morceaux manquants ! Ma G-G-Grand-mère Anne Dunn Rhodes en noir. William Rhodes est sur la troisième photo, le seul homme ! Aussi un landau! Late 1800' s, the Mill has become a Fish Hatchery, and the dock is used for the Steamers, which was the primary method of transportation to Tadoussac. À la fin des années 1800, le moulin est devenu une écloserie et le quai est utilisé pour les bateaux à vapeur, qui étaient le principal moyen de transport vers Tadoussac. Église de la Sainte-Croix built 1885-9, and the hotel was expanded circa 1900, so this is 1890's. Above the main street is an empty sand dune! L'église de la Sainte-Croix a été construite de 1885 à 1889, et l'hôtel a été agrandi vers 1900, nous sommes donc dans les années 1890. Au-dessus de la rue principale se trouve une dune de sable vide ! Anse à L'Eau is still the only dock in Tadoussac, with a new pavilion. L'Anse à L'Eau est toujours le seul quai à Tadoussac, avec un nouveau pavillon. 76

Canoes, Punts, Rowboats Canots, Punts, Chaloupes Birchbark Canoe 1910 Canot d'écorce 1910 Godfrey, Lily, and Catherine Rhodes Plage Tadoussac Beach 1901 Godfrey Rhodes, Minnie (Rhodes) Morewood, Dorothy (Dorsh) Rhodes (Evans), ?, Billy Morewood, Carrie Rhodes (Morewood) 1901 Nancy Morewood, Catherine Rhodes (Tudor-Hart), Frank E Morewood K Ewart holding on tight K Ewart tenant serré Dean Lewis Evans et Marjorique pêchent près du Lark Reef 1910 Dean Lewis Evans and Marjorique fishing near Lark Reef, 1910 1900's The "WHITE BOAT" circa 1910 at the Marguerite Dressed all in white and pulling the boat to the shore of the Saguenay, 1917 Tout de blanc vêtu et en tirant le bateau à la rive de la rivière Saguenay, 1917 Nan (Rhodes) and Lennox Williams Lily and Frances Rhodes Mary Williams (Wallace) in the "White Boat" Pte a la Croix 1910's Lennox Williams Sydney Williams Adele Languedoc Mary Williams (Wallace) ? Lily Rhodes Nan (Rhodes) Williams Marjorie Gagné helped my father, Lewis Evans with his model of a Lower St Lawrence Yawl, about 1918. In 1951 Lewis Evans bought a very old yawl and restored it, the "Bonne Chance" shown at right in a painting by Tom Roberts. Majorque Gagné a aidé mon père, Lewis Evans avec son modèle d'un Yole Bas-St Laurent , vers 1918. En 1951, Lewis Evans a acheté un yole très vieux et le restaura, le "Bonne Chance" illustré à droite dans un tableau de Tom Roberts. Majorique Gagné was well known to the English-speaking community of Tadoussac, considered their handyman. He was called "inventive." (ingenious). For an insoluble problem, people didn't hesitate to ask his advice, and he always found a way out. He was small, walked and spoke quickly, and often spoke aloud to himself. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve Majorique Gagné était bien connu de la communauté anglophone de Tadoussac, il était considéré comme leur homme à tout faire. On le disait "patenteux", (ingénieux). Pour un problème insoluble, on n'hésitait pas a lui demander conseil et il trouvait toujours un moyen de s'en sortir. Il était petit, il marchait et parlait vite et se parlait souvent seul à voix haute. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve 1920's "Explorer" Jean Alexander (Aylan-Parker) and Jim Alexander Lewis Evans & Harry Dawson Baude River above the dam Bill Morewood, ?, Jack Wallace 1930's Bill and Frank E Morewood Ainslie Evans (Stephen) Betty Morewood (Evans) Phoebe Evans (Skutezky) Robin and Doris Molson Jack, Verity and Robin Molson 1930's Susan Williams (Webster), ?, Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Jim Williams, ?? Joan Williams (Ballantyne), ?? Harry Morewood, Jimmy Williams, Simon Wallace (friend), Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Frank Morewood, Susan Williams (Webster), Jennifer and Delia Tudor-Hart, Bobby Morewood Sheila Williams (Campbell), Penny Smith (Younger) 1942 Jimmy Williams, Susan Williams (Webster) 1942 Alan Findley, Betty, Anne and Lewis Evans, and dog Smitty in the punt! No Life Jackets 1950 Alan Findley, Betty, Anne and Lewis Evans, et le chien Smitty dans le punt! Pas de gilets de sauvetage 1950 Jim and Ted Aylan-Parker Jean (Alexander) Aylan-Parker 1955 ? & Willie Leggatt 1964 44

Grandchildren of William Rhodes, Quebec & Tadoussac, Quebec NEXT PAGE The 18 Tadoussac Grandchildren of William Rhodes and Anne Dunn PREVIOUS This is an amazing collection of photographs of the RHODES Family in Tadoussac, assembled from albums of many families. These folks are our ancestors, the people that enjoyed Tadoussac before we did. You will have heard of most of them, and if you are 40+ maybe you knew them. This page is LONG, hundreds of photos. But it's PHOTOGRAPHS, not much reading involved! Take the time to get to know some great people. This page introduces the older ancestors, the children of William and Anne Rhodes, but focuses on the 18 grandchildren who spent wonderful time in Tadoussac from the 1880's to the 1980's! Of the 18 only 8 have descendants, but there are now about 140 direct descendants who come to Tadoussac, and they have built 16 houses in Tadoussac! You may be one! 18 of the RHODES GRANDCHILDREN Carrie Rhodes Morewood 1881 John Morewood1884 Frank Morewood1886 Catherine Rhodes 1888 Nancy Morewood 1888 Jimmy Williams 1888 Lily Bell Rhodes 1889 Mary Williams Wallace 1890 Charley Rhodes 1890 Gertrude Williams Alexander 1891 Isobel (Billy) Morewood 1891 Frances Rhodes 1892 Dorothy Rhodes Evans1892 Gertrude Rhodes1896 Bobby Morewood 1897 Sidney Williams 1899 Monica Rhodes1904 Armitage (Peter) Rhodes Hargreaves 1909 (Omitted from this list are 5 who died in infancy, and 9 children of Bob Rhodes who lived in the US and didn't come to Tadoussac, so the total is really about 32). Peter de Rodes came from France to England in about 1600 William Rhodes 1791-1869 and Ann Smith -1827 lived in Bramhope Hall, England, near Leeds. Their second son, William Rhodes, moved to Quebec in 1842. He married Anne Catherine Dunn in 1846, granddaughter of Thomas Dunn of Quebec. The Rhodes Family lived at Benmore, Sillery, Quebec They built a summer cottage "Brynhyfryd" in Tadoussac in 1860, which was constantly expanded to accomodate the growing family. This is organized by family First the PARENTS (the children of William Rhodes and Anne Dunn) Then the GRANDCHILDREN William Rhodes (Jr) 1851-1921 Caroline Hibler 1848-1929 William was the third oldest of the five Rhodes boys. He worked for the Baldwin Locomotive Works in Philadelphia, and travelled the world delivering and assembling locomotives. They had one daughter. Carrie Rhodes Morewood 1881-1973 The oldest Grandchild, she was born in Australia, and lived in Doylestown and Bryn Mayr (near Philadelphia), and with her son Bill and his family in New Jersey. She summered in Quebec at Benmore and Tadoussac, and married her first cousin Frank Morewood. She is my grandmother, I knew her well! A lovely lady. Carrie, Frank, Bill and Betty(Evans) Morewood) Harry Morewood 1855-1916 Minnie Rhodes 1857-1942 Minnie was the 6th oldest of the Rhodes children, with 5 older brothers. The Morewood had 5 children, and much of the family lived at the Rhodes family home, Benmore in Quebec, until it was sold in the late 1940's. And of course summer in Tadoussac. Frank Morewood 1886-1949 Frank was an artist and architect, and designed several Tadoussac houses (Windward, Brynhyfryd, Turcot). He married his first cousin Carrie (above) and is my grandfather. They had 2 children, Bill and Betty. John Morewood 1884-1944 Nancy Morewood 1888-1946 Isobel (Billy) Morewood 1891-1977 at right Meeting the boat in Anse a L'Eau with her cousin/sister-in-law Carrie Rhodes circa 1910 Bobby Morewood 1897-1964 below, Bill and Ainslie Stephen, Harry Bob and Frank Morewood, Phoebe Morewood Family Photos Left Bill Morewood and Aunt Billy Morewood Right Aunt Margaret Bill and Betty (Evans) Morewood Bobby Morewood Godfrey Rhodes 1850-1932 Lily Jamison 1859-1939 Godfrey was second oldest, and he trained with his brother William in industrial mills in Pennsylvania. He inherited from his namesake, Uncle Godfrey Rhodes, and bought Cataraquai, a large estate in Sillery, Quebec, next door to the Rhodes family home Benmore. They had one daughter Catherine. Cataraquai in Quebec Catherine Rhodes 1888-1972 Catherine was very interested in art and an artist herself. She married Percival Tudor-Hart, a well known artist, and they built a large house in Tadoussac . He had two children from a previous marriage. Catherine lived at Cataraquia her whole life. Armitage Rhodes 1848-1909 Ida Alleman 1854-1893 Katie VonIffland 1867-1938 Armitage was the oldest, and had two children Charley and Dorothy (Dorsh) with his first wife, and two daughters with his second wife, Monica and Armitage (Peter). He lived at Benmore and spent a lot of time in Tadoussac at Brynhyfryd. Above Charley Rhodes with his mother in Montreal Charley Rhodes 1890-? Below Charley Rhodes with Uncle Jimmy Rhodes at Benmore Dorothy Rhodes Evans 1892-1977 at right Dorothy with Katie (VonIffland) Rhodes Below with Monica Dorothy Rhodes married Trevor Evans, and they had four children, Phoebe, Ainslie, Trevor and Tim. They bought the cottage Ivanhoe Dorothy (Dorsh) at right with a couple of her grandchildren Bill and Margie Stephen early 1950's at Hovington's Farm Monica Rhodes1904-1985 Armitage Rhodes and his second wife, Katie VonIffland, with Monica Below Monica Rhodes and her grandmother Anne (Dunn) Rhodes Armitage (Peter) Rhodes Hargreaves 1909-1969 above Dorothy, Peter, Katie (VanIffland) Rhodes above 1913 Peter with her grandmother MrsVonIffland below Katie (Von Iffland) Rhodes with Peter and Dorothy Francis Rhodes 1853-1926 Totie LeMoine 1859-1941 Francis was the fourth oldest and married a Québec girl, Totie LeMoyne, of "Spencer Grange", near Benmore, outside Québec. He studied mining and they lived in the US until James LeMoyne died and they came back to Quebec. They had 3 daughters, LilyBell, Frances and Gertrude. Spencer Grange still exists, at 1328, Avenue Duquet, Quebec Lily Bell Rhodes 1889-1975 above Lily and Frances with their father Francis, at the sand dunes Frances Rhodes 1892-1976 below 1916 at Spencer Grange Lily LucyLogan MargaretPrice GertrudeWA 1950 LilyBell and another cousin, Margaret Robes in Boston The third sister Gertrude Rhodes1896-1926 She studied medicine and when she was an intern in a Denver hospital she got sick and died at the age of 30. Nan Rhodes Williams with Lily and Gertrude, only one photo Caroline Anne (Nan) Rhodes 1861-1937 Lennox Williams 1859-1958 Nan was the second daughter, seventh child in the Rhodes family. She married Lennox Williams who became Bishop of Quebec, they lived in Quebec City and had 4 children. Nan inherited Brynhyfryd from her parents. Jim Williams 1888-1916 He is the oldest son of Lennox Williams and Nan Rhodes. Born in 1888, married Evelyn Meredith January 3, 1916. He was killed in the First World War at the Somme in November 18, 1916 at the age of 28. More photos at under the Williams Tab above Mary Williams Wallace 1890 - 1989 Mary and Jack Wallace owned Brynhyfryd for many years. They had one daughter Nan (Wallace) Leggat, and two sons Jack and Michael Wallace. ~1907 MaryWallace with HarrietRoss at left Mary with Robbie Leggat? early 1950's Gertrude Williams Alexander 1891-? Gertrude married Gen. Ronald Alexander and they had three children, Jim Alexander, Jean (Alexander) Aylan-Parker, and Ron Alexander above circa 1900 in front of Benmore below circa 1907 with her aunt Minnie (Rhodes) Morewood and her granny Anne (Dunn) Rhodes Canon Sidney Waldron Williams 1899-1972 Sidney Williams married Enid Price and they had four children, Joan, Susan, Jim and Sheila at right 1913 Donat Therrien, brother Jimmy and Sid The Williams family at Brynhyfryd circa 1914 Mary Syd Jim Evelyn Lennox&Nan Gertrude The Sidney/Enid Williams family circa Mary Syd Jim Evelyn Lennox&Nan Gertrude Do you think you are done? You are not! There's more Rhodes Grandchildren, mostly having fun together in Tadoussac! Keep going to the next page>>>> 190 NEXT PAGE

Short Stories by R Lewis Evans R. Lewis Evans was an English Teacher who loved to write. Although his books are quite well-known, his short stories and articles belong mostly to the more distant past. It was during the 1940s and 1950s that magazine short stories were popular and sought after and Dad wrote over 20 of them. Most were published, and many are of interest especially to those of us who know and love the Lower St. Lawrence and Saguenay areas of Quebec, so I decided to get them out of the file and onto the web-site where they can be read once again. I've divided the stories into categories. While he wrote mostly river stories about the Tadoussac area, including some historical fiction, he also wrote 6 stories about World War II (4 of which overlap with our beloved river), and a number of odd inspirations, one biblical, several inspired by newspaper items, and even one (gasp!) Science Fiction. There are also some non-fiction articles which will be coming along later in the year. I love them all partly because he wrote about what he loved and I love it too, but partly because his characters are thoughtful, compassionate and real. I've included a few notes that he kept in the file. Some are news articles he drew his ideas from; others are comments he received from editors either printed in the magazine or sent along to him separately. I've also tried to reproduce the illustrations, duly credited, as all the stories that published were supported by visual art. Only one, Casual Enemy, has no illustrator mentioned. My guess is he drew that one himself. I've read all these stories several times in my efforts to get them up onto the web-site correctly and I've never tired of them. I hope you enjoy them. A fair warning: some readers might recognize a few people! Alan Evans NEXT PAGE R Lewis Evans War Stories Casual Enemy (As Published in “Boating Magazine”, Vol. 18, no. 3, April, 1942) by Lewis Evans PIERRE TREMBLAY put down his pipe and listened. The hollow chug of a diesel engine had suddenly broken the silence of the bay as some craft rounded the steep headland at its outer end. “No running lights,” the old French-Canadian murmured to himself, and then he smiled at his own comment, for his own little work boat, anchored close under the rugged hillside near the head of the bay, carried no riding light. The bays off the Saguenay River are deep—thirty to a hundred fathoms; small craft have to anchor close to shore in order to find bottom, and lights of any kind attract mosquitoes from the woods. The jarring clang of a bell slowed the engines of the incoming craft, and Pierre sat back and drew on his pipe again. She was the “Phantome”. He knew that engine bell—it had been cracked for years. The “Phantome” was a diesel-engined coaster with a shady history. Five years ago, meeting her under the same conditions, Pierre would have known that she was bootlegging cheap French liquor from St. Pierre and Miquelon in the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the dry counties up river. Not much money in that game now, though, and the “Phantome” had been out of it since her crew had had to jettison a cargo worth well over a thousand dollars, and the pursuing government patrol boat had just enough evidence to get Xavier Bouchard, the “Phantome’s” captain and Pierre’s sister’s son, two years in the Quebec jail. Well, he hoped that Xavier was up to nothing that might get him into trouble again. That jail sentence had nearly broken his mother’s heart, for she was a gentle and pious woman. Perhaps he was netting salmon—that would get him a fat fine if he were caught, but the government boats were too busy trying to keep the St. Lawrence free from German submarines these days to worry about coasting vessels breaking the Fish and Game Laws. Only a week ago a freighter had been torpedoed out in the Gulf, not so very many miles from the Saguenay. Two patrol boats had already claimed the destruction of the submarine. Why couldn’t Xavier get some honest work, and save Marie, his mother, the anxiety which was making her old before her time? Honest work was to be had easily enough these days, though Pierre himself was not too sure what kind of a job he could pick up now that this work on the fish-hatchery dam was over. His had been the supply boat for that—a government project to build a salmon hatchery on the stream that emptied into the bay. Today the dam had been finished, the gang had been taken out by launch, and Pierre’s boat was loaded with shovels and picks, unused food stores, cement and dynamite. Ah well—he’d get something to do. There was work going on aboard the “Phantome” — sounded like heavy oil drums being rolled along the deck. Surely they would not be shifting their cargo at this time of night. Still no lights, and only occasionally came a subdued order. Pierre could see nothing — bateme, but the night was a black one. Then came the louder rumble of oil drums — empty ones. Pierre suddenly stood up and peered into the darkness. Surely Xavier could not be such a fool . . . but still, the St. Lawrence was a long way from Germany, and diesel engines needed fuel oil, and Xavier had always liked easy money . . . Quietly Pierre hauled in the painter of the ten-foot flat-bottomed boat that served him as tender. As he eased himself aboard he remembered to leave his pipe behind — the dynamite was stowed in the tender for safety’s sake. Two stealthy strokes with a paddle moved him away from his boat. The tide had begun to rise and a slight current set round the bay, drifting him towards the “Phantome”. At last he could make out the shape of the coaster, her stump mast, and the wheelhouse at her stern dimly silhouetted against the mouth of the bay. Pierre peered at her waterline . . . was there? . . . yes — a long, low, shelving shape protruded astern of the coaster. The submarine lay on the far side of the “Phantome”. Pierre worked his boat back against the tide, which was running more strongly now, and almost bumped his work boat before he saw it. He got aboard and sat down, holding the tender’s painter. Poor Marie — what would she do if Xavier got into trouble for this piece of work? And this might be only the first of many refueling episodes. Straightening up with decision, Pierre hauled his tender to that side of his boat farther from the “Phantome”. Leaning over, he worked fast. Once he paused to peer at the position of the coaster, once to dip his hand into the current slipping past the side of his boat, testing its strength. He rummaged in the cockpit and came up with a large reel of cod line, one end of which he secured to the tender. Leaning over the smaller boat and opening his coat wide as a shield, he struck a match. An end of fuse lay in the bottom; he lighted it and doused the match quickly. Manoeuvring the tender round the stern of his boat, he felt to make sure that the cod-line was not snarled, and then gave the tender a long, gentle push towards the “Phantome”. Sitting down, he carefully paid out the line as the little craft, in the grip of the tide, asked for it. The rumble of oil drums on the “Phantome” had ceased, and now came a clanking. She was weighing anchor. Pierre gave his tender more slack and felt her take it up. Slowly the coaster’s anchor chain clanked inboard, and her engine was started up. So much of the cod-line was now in the water that Pierre could not feel a definite pull from the tender, but he went on giving slack. The cracked engine bell jangled aboard the “Phantome”, and her propeller kicked ahead slowly. The clanking of the chain had ceased. Pierre found that the end of the cod-line was in his hand. Knowing the length of the line, and praying that his judgement of distance was right, he pulled in a fathom or two, and crouched in the cockpit. Suddenly there was a hoarse shout in the darkness — the tender had been seen. Pierre tensed, gripping the cockpit coaming. Then a flash lit the bay — lit up for a second the silver streak of the submarine stretching forward from the flash, three figures on the deck frozen in their movement, and the “Phantome” clear of the submarine and heading out of the bay. Pitch darkness blinded Pierre; a scrap of wood clattered into the cockpit beside him — of the tender’s gunwale, by the feel of it; his ears, deafened by the blast, heard dimly confused shouts and the hurried thump of the “Phantome’s” motor as she fled out of the bay. The old man, trembling a little, hauled up his anchor and started his motor. Expecting a fusillade of rifle shots at the very least, he zig-zagged along close to shore, heading for the open. No shots followed him, and he rounded the headland and dropped his hook in the next bay down the river. On such a night that explosion should have been heard in Tadoussac, two miles away at the mouth of the Saguenay. If so surely the patrol boat based there would investigate. Not long afterwards he heard the drone of the patrol boat. It swept up the Saguenay towards him, its searchlight probing. Pierre hastily lighted his running lights and got under way back towards the bay. The patrol boat caught up to him just off the headland. Pierre pointed towards the bay and was left rocking in the wake of the grey launch. By the time he had rounded the head the patrol boat was almost alongside the submarine, her searchlight and gun trained on it. There was no resistance, however, for the submarine was submerged and aground at the stern, her bow protruding from the surface at a sharp angle, her crew clinging to the deck. Apparently the blast had occurred near the stern, which had gone down, while the forward part of the hull remained buoyant. Pierre drifted up to the patrol boat. “What do you know about this?” demanded the Naval Reserve Lieutenant in command. Pierre explained, partly in French and partly in broken English, with expressive gestures, but not mentioning the “Phantome”, which by now should be far up the Saguenay, frightened to death but above suspicion. The Lieutenant expressed his amazement profanely, and added: “Meet us in Tadoussac. The government will be very grateful . . .” Marie would be grateful too, if she knew, thought Pierre. “And we'll get you a new tender and some more dynamite,” went on the officer. “Oh, the dynamite — it belonged to the government anyway,” said Pierre. The End He heard a yell and the sound of quick movement from the pit as he swooped towards it and tossed the grenade Monte Cassino Downhill (Published in The Montreal Standard, Spring of 1944) Lieutenant Johnny Martin takes a long chance on a tricky slope by Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEOFFREY TRAUNTER TO USE his own expression, Lieutenant Johnny Martin was skunked. He crouched and shivered in the hole he had scooped in the snowdrift under a stunted bush and mentally compared it with what the Americans called foxholes in the Pacific battle zones. The only fox that might condescend to call this "home,” thought Johnny, would be an Arctic fox. The miserable shelter in which he crouched was on the southwest shoulder of Monte Cassino, and below him was the valley in which lay one of the main roads to Rome, the valley up which units of the Fifth Army were advancing towards the town of Cassino. Johnny could see the road down there, about a thousand feet below him, and the gaps in it where the retreating Germans had blown up the culverts. He could see the railway line, too, with the twisted girders of a steel bridge sagging into a small river; the Fortresses had fixed that, in a precision daylight attack weeks ago. The slopes on which he lay, and all the other mountains in that jumble of southern spurs of the Appenines, were deep in snow on their summits but on the lower contours the snow became patchy, and down in the valleys mud reigned supreme. The regiment would be wallowing in it as usual, Johnny thought. The Italian weather had been horribly wet for weeks, and turning cold in December had resulted in the unusual amount of snow on the mountains. Well, he thought, at least his snowdrift, if cold, was cleaner than the mud down in the valley. Opposite him to his left were the slopes of a smaller valley running into the main one, and that was where his regiment was. His problem was to rejoin them. The considerable obstacle directly in his way was a small sector of the German defenses, consisting of a machine-gun nest in the lee of a knoll about halfway down the shoulder of the floor of this minor valley. In front of the nest and below the knoll stretched a mare’s nest of barbed wire, protecting the gunners from a frontal charge. Their field of fire covered the lower slopes of the mountain, where the snow gave way to grass and mud. Monte Cassino had been causing the Allies plenty of worry as they hammered their way through ancient Campania. It was crowned by the huge monastery which had been founded by St. Benedict in the year 529, but that historical fact held little interest for the men whose job it was to rid the mountain of Germans. They hoped that the monks had had the sense to clear out before their mountain became a military objective, and wanted desperately to know if the Germans had established any form of artillery in or near the monastery or the ruined castle just below the two valleys and could break up any advance in force towards Cassino. Air reconnaissance had failed to reveal any gun sites, but the two buildings afforded such opportunities for concealment that the risk of advancing without further information was too great—hence Lieutenant Martin’s uncomfortable presence on the mountain and on the wrong side of the remnants of the German rearguard. JOHNNY had been amongst the Canadians who had qualified as paratroopers at an American training camp early in the war, and last night he had been dropped onto the slopes of Monte Cassino from an ugly Lysander Army Reconnaissance aircraft. In the gray December dawn he had scrambled up and onto the monastery courtyard to find the snow lying clean and untracked, and the great stone well standing in the middle as it had stood through the centuries of war and peace. Then he had slithered down to the ruined castle and satisfied himself that the Germans had established no artillery in either place. Possibly, Johnny thought, they considered the buildings to obvious, too likely to be bombed flat by Allied planes. Into the first rays of the morning sun as it rose behind the Allied armies Lieutenant Martin had flashed the pre-arranged signal which told the watchers that the buildings hid nothing of military importance, and then he had started for home. Worming his way down the shoulder he had seen the machine-gun post. He had expected something of the sort somewhere, and after reconnoitering enough to find that there were other similar nests on other parts of the lower slopes which the advancing troops would probably have to silence by mortar fire, he decided that his only chance was to wait until dark or until the Allied advance had cleared the enemy from their positions. So he lay and shivered, and considered the terrain below him. As the hours crawled by the sun warmed him a little, and the surface of the snow melted. Like spring snow in the Laurentians, thought Johnny, and his memory conjured up visions of Hill 70 at St. Sauveur, and beer and singing in the pub at night, and ski races against Dartmouth, and the Quebec Kandahar on Mont Tremblant, in the days when he was a Red Bird and used to ski for McGill. He thought of standing on the brow of Hill 70 in the cold brightness of a Sunday morning and watching the Montreal train, looking ridiculously small from where he stood, pulling into the station, and the unbelievable number of skiers who poured out of it and fanned out towards their favorite hills. From the stationary locomotive a great white plume of steam would go up like a huge mushroom, and yet he would be looking down on its top, just as he was looking down on this valley and the occasional mushroom of smoke from a bursting shell as some German gunners far up the main road searched for the Allied advance units. SUDDENLY Johnny’s gaze centred on a movement halfway down the slope and well to the right of the machine-gun post. Working round the shoulder of the hill was a man in the white parka of a ski-trooper, and to Johnny’s incredulous eyes he appeared to be on skis. He had apparently come from the steep zigzag road which connected the monastery with the valley below, and where another of the enemy outposts was. From his actions as he traversed the hillside he appeared to be carrying a load, and Johnny figured it must be ammunition or food for the post directly below. His surprise diminished as he realized that the man would hardly dare approach the post in daylight without that white protection, for a field uniform would be seen against the snowy slope from the other side of the valley. Perhaps the Germans had some mountain-trained and equipped regiments here. Their organization was supposed to be efficient and controlled by such inflexible rules that they might easily have sent skis with troops who were to fight in mountainous country even if the mountains were in Southern Italy. The skier moved on and eventually came to the post, stooped to undo his harness, and then dropped out of sight over the lip of the emplacement. Johnny’s thoughts ran on the subject of skis and skiing. Looking down over the machine-gun nest by the knoll and its protecting wire, he idly wondered whether a good skier taking off from the knoll could clear that wire below it. It might be possible, he figured, as the lower face of the knoll was cutaway steeply and the wire ran close under the face. The landing would be too flat for comfort, he thought, but one could hardly expect a natural jump to have everything. If he had some skis he could wait for night and the moon, which was strong, and then run straight for the knoll, lob a grenade into the nest as he passed, and hope that his speed would take him clear of the wire before he landed. If the grenade did its job and if no other machine- gun covered that field of fire — and he had seen no other post close enough to do so — he might ski on down to the snow-line and find cover and perhaps his own advancing units beyond that. Oh, well — what was the use of wishing? — but it seemed silly that after volunteering for a special ski course and being bored to death learning to “bear-walk” and do the “crawl” all over the snowy flats of Petawawa he should need a pair of skis in Southern Italy, of all places. The sun was sloping westwards toward the Mediterranean, and the air was getting colder. Johnny Martin thought of the long night on the mountain – he did not dare seek shelter in the monastery or the old castle as some of the Germans might have the same idea. Another twelve hours before he could reasonably expect his friends to attack – Johnny shuddered. “If I stay here all night,” he said to himself with a smile that was a bit grim, “I shall probably wake up in the morning with a very bad cold in the head – if I wake up. And if the attack doesn't drive those Germans away, or if we don't attack at dawn, I may have to stay on and on.” Anything was better than that, he thought. If that fellow in the parka would start back, and if he could get his skis. . . Johnny got out his large scale map. There was Monte Cassino, there was the winding road from the monastery to the valley, and there was the contour line followed by the skier from the road to the macine-gun emplacement. Johnny's finger followed along the contour line and stopped where it swung deeply in towards the mountain and out again. That must be a stream or stream-bed seaming the slope, he knew. If he could meet the skier in that gully they would be invisible from anywhere but directly above or below; they would be, as it were, in a fold in the ground. JOHNNY MARTIN got going. He wriggled out of his foxhole, and keeping the height of the drift between him and the post below he crawled up the shoulder towards the ruined castle, and then bore to the left towards the upper end of the gully. He reached it and slithered into it. It was just what he had expected – a rocky stream-bed with a trickle of water from the day's melting, a trickle that would be a torrent if the weather warmed up a little. Johnny scrambled down it till he came to the tracks made by the skier crossing the gully on the way to the post, and then he crouched by a rock a little uphill from the tracks and where he could see them disappear around the shoulder of the slope. The sun had gone, and visibility was being cut down to a few yards, until at around nine o'clock the rising moon should increase it considerably. Finally Johnny heard the indescribable sound of skis over snow, and a figure loomed against the sky-line. The Canadian gripped the icy butt of his automatic and tensed himself for a spring. The skier slid into the gully, lost his balance as his ski tips hit the opposite slope, and crashed with a grunt. He grunted once more – a grunt of surprise – as Johnny jumped on him and slugged at his head with the heavy gun. Johnny struggled to strip off the man's parka and heard it rip as at last it came away. Then he freed the skis and picked them up, together with the single ski-pole the German had been using, and started climbing up the gully with his spoil. Back in his shelter in the drift Johnny waited while the moon cleared the silvery summits of the distant hills. His plan was a chancy one, he knew, but he could not face any more hours in the damp cold and inactivity. WAITING for the moonrise he adjusted the leather harness to fit his boots, and his thoughts went back to cable bindings and long arguments before log-fires on the merits of super-diagonal and other down-hill devices. “'The time has come,' the Walrus said . . .” murmured Johnny and stretched himself flat on his skis. Using his hands and feet as a seal uses its flippers he slowly and cautiously tobogganed down the slope as far as he dared. There was a bush a hundred yards or so above the emplacement, and there he stopped. Beyond was the clear, steep ground, ground bathed in moonlight where he would be spotted if he tried to sneak across, then the knoll with the shadow of the weapon pit to one side of it, and dimly seen below the knoll was the tangle of wire. Crouching, Johnny got his feet into the harness and produced his two grenades from under his parka. One he left on the ground by the bush – he would only have time to use one, and he didn't like the idea of taking a mighty tumble with enough explosive on his person to blow him to bits, safe though grenades were supposed to be until the pin was out. Slowly he straightened up and launched himself forward. His skis gathered way, and for a moment his mind flipped back to a mad moonlight race on Mount Baldy one March long ago – then he was checking with a forced stem in the yielding snow and pulling the pin from the grenade. His skis came parallel again and he heard a yell and the sound of a quick movement from the pit as he swooped towards it and tossed the grenade in. Then he was on the knoll with his knees bent deep, snapping straight as he crossed the lip of the mound, and he had a blurred impression of white ground surging up at him and a roar from behind him. His skis hit the snow and he wavered, steadied, hit a bump and crashed with a cracking sound that he hoped was breaking skis, not rifle fire. He struggled up to find one ski intact and the other broken off short behind his foot. On he plunged towards the darkness of the valley, trying to keep most of his weight on the unbroken ski. A clump of bushes loomed up and he swung round it in a forward leaning turn that would have been appreciated on the Taschereau run, only to see a great patch of snowless ground beyond it. He tried to stop but his skis bit the earth, and he somersaulted madly. In the first roll his head hit a chunk of half-frozen turf and he was unconscious as he hurtled into a depression in the ground where a very large Canadian sergeant and two men with evil designs upon the German machine-gun nest were setting up a mortar. EVER since dark the sergeant had been heaving his bulk forward from cover to cover to get within range of that emplacement. To have his prospective target blow up for no good reason at all was one thing, he thought, but to have a one hundred and eighty pound unconscious lieutenant impinge on his stomach at that time of night was something else again. Johnny Martin came to dizzily to hear the sergeant emphatically muttering what seemed to be a prayer – except that the words were in quite the wrong order. The End NOTE: It was the following article in the February 7th, 1944 edition of the Globe and Mail newspaper which gave Dad the idea for this story. The (fuzzy and difficult to read despite my best efforts) original is included below. Germans Shell Abbey Housing Own Troops Montecassino Monastery (arrow) high above the town of Cassino, was founded by St. Benedict in 529, on the site of ancient Temple of Apollo. By C. L. SULZBERGER - New York Times Special to The Globe and Mail. Copyright With the 5th Army in Italy, Feb. 5 (Delayed).—German artillery, for some peculiar and perverse reason, today shelled the famous old monastery atop Monte Cassino where the Benedictine Order was born, although there is every reason to believe some of their own troops were within the vast abbey which the enemy is believed using as an observation post. Shortly after 3 p.m. this correspondent happened to be looking at the historic landmark above the lacerated town of the same name, where American troops are slowly battling their way forward in vicious street fighting, when geysers of smoke billowed from the abbey, standing out clearly in the crisp, bright atmosphere. As the smoke drifted southward in huge clouds, careful scrutinizing through binoculars revealed no visible damage. In order to ascertain the reasons for this extraordinary event, since Lt.-Gen. Mark W. Clark has issued strictest orders to his army not to fire on the abbey or any other papal property or a series of specified clerical buildings unless it is a question of the most vital military necessity, the writer made a careful inquiry among American artillery officers. Major A. J. Peterson, Minneapolis, Minn., who observed the same bursts and then inquired of various artillery observation outposts in the immediate vicinity of the monastery, said: “We could identify the shell bursts. There was one direct hit on top of the abbey. Our observers were able to plot the direction of the shells. They came from the north, in the Atinia region, and from the northwest which areas are in enemy hands.” Meanwhile, further evidence of Nazi violation of those few courtesies remaining in modern warfare was received when a French prisoner who escaped last night informed Allied authorities the Germans were forcing British, American and French captives to carry ammunition and dig positions in the Cassino vicinity. These prisoners are forced to labor under the shellfire of Allied guns, and there have been casualties among them. The Frenchman escaped during the night in the confusion following an especially heavy Allied barrage on Cassino positions still held by the Germans. He said that to the best of his knowledge, 12 Englishmen, six Americans, and two Frenchmen still remained with the enemy as prisoners in his group, doing forced labor under fire. Of Assistance to the Enemy (Published in the Montreal Standard, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY BEN TURNER “AND SO,’’ concluded the announcer who was summarizing the news in French over Radio Rimouski that night, “of the ten German long-range bombers which made an attempt at five o’clock this morning to destroy the great dams at the head of the Saguenay River, seven were brought down by interceptor aircraft from Bagotville and Mont Joli before they reached their objective, one dropped its bomb load harmlessly into the waters of Lake St. John and was brought down by anti-aircraft fire, and the remaining two fled south from the fighters towards the St. Lawrence, jettisoning their bombs over uninhabited parts of the Laurentians. The crews of these two bombers are believed to have bailed out over the north shore of the St. Lawrence, as their aircraft were observed to crash in the river some miles off-shore. These men are being sought by military units and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. So ended the first enemy attempt to do to a Canadian industrial centre what the British succeeded in doing to the Mohne and Eder dams in Germany some time ago.” Old Captain Tremblay switched off the radio in the cabin of the coasting schooner St. Casimir, tied up at the wharf in Ste. Catherine’s Bay at the mouth of the Saguenay, and listened for a few moments to the comments of his companions as they continued their late meal. Outside, rain had come up on the rising east wind, and the three French-Canadians who formed his crew did not hurry over their food. They were in no haste to return to the rain-swept wharf and get on with the job of loading the St. Casimir with pulp logs. The Captain reached for his battered green-covered copy of “The St. Lawrence River Pilot” and turned to the chapter that dealt with the mouth of the Saguenay and the waters of the St. Lawrence in that vicinity, for he and his ship usually plied farther upstream, and his present route was not a familiar one. With his finger on the place he looked up. "Get going,” he ordered. “About twelve more cords to load. Tide’s full now. so the sooner we can sail the better — the ebb will be in our favor, and I don’t want to waste it.” “The three men, two deckhands and an engineer, put on their sodden caps and went out. Climbing the steep face of the dock they mounted the pile of four-foot pulp logs and bent to their work. With one hand they drove their short hooks into the logs and jerked them upwards, and then hook and free hand heaved them forward and downward into the semi-darkness to land with hollow thunder on the St. Casimir’s wooden deck, illumined by the half-hearted floodlight permitted by the dim-out regulations. When half an hour before midnight Captain Tremblay came out on the bridge to see how the work was going, the twelve cords on the wharf had become six and his men were on the schooner's deck converting the jumbled pile into a well-stowed deck load. The east wind had increased and even in Ste. Catherine’s Bay, sheltered by reefs from the open St. Lawrence, small waves were bunting the schooner against the wharf and her rubbing strake groaned from time to time on the massive piles. The Captain moved aft to slacken a taut mooring line, for the tide had dropped a foot or so. When he turned back there were four men on the deck amidships instead of three. As the newcomer’s shadow came between them and the light the workers straightened up from their task and stared. “Good evening,” said the stranger. “May I speak with your Captain?” He spoke in French, but each of the men listening knew at once that he was no French-Canadian. He was speaking careful school-book French, as most English-Canadians and Americans do. The engineer indicated Tremblay with a gesture and the stranger turned towards him. “Captain, you have a small boat—” he jerked his thumb aft, where the schooner’s lifeboat hung on davits across her stern— “and I want you or one of your men to take me out beyond the reefs to the St. Lawrence. I will pay you what you ask for your trouble.” “Impossible, monsieur,” exclaimed Tremblay. He motioned towards the pulp logs. “We have work to do and besides, the weather ...” He gestured vaguely towards the rainy darkness off-shore, and through his mind went the words he had heard less than two hours before—“The crews of these two bombers are believed to have bailed out over the north shore of the St. Lawrence. . .” “Nonsense!” said the stranger rather abruptly, and he took a step nearer the Captain. “There is no sea to speak of, and I saw from the wharf that your boat has an engine. I will pay you well. I must insist.” Tremblay was silent, staring at the man before him, a tall, fair fellow, bareheaded, who kept his hands in the pockets of a raincoat so soaked and dirty as to be colorless in that dim light. At length he spoke. “No sir,” he said firmly. “It can’t be done.” It was no surprise to him when his words seemed to lift the stranger’s right hand— and Luger—out of the pocket. “Listen, Captain,” said the German. “I am in a hurry. You or one of your men must take me where I want to go — out beyond the mouth of the Saguenay.” “Submarine!” murmured the Captain, stating a fact rather than asking a question. “Ha!” said the other. “You’ve heard of the bombing. There are U-boats at points off the north shore tonight and we were instructed to get to them if we could. You see my position — I will stand no foolishness. Make up your minds — will one of you take me, or . . .” THE CAPTAIN’S eyes travelled over the German. The man was tired — that was obvious. His clothing bore the marks of a day-long battle with the Laurentian bush. A tired man, but the tired man held the gun, and was impatient. The Captain turned to his men. “Lower the boat,” he ordered. The three men turned slowly and shuffled aft to uncleat the falls, conscious all the time of the gun behind them. Captain Tremblay followed. He was under no illusion — that Nazi might shoot one or all of them, whether they did as he told them or not. The blocks squealed and the eighteen-foot boat slid towards the black water. Tremblay glanced over his shoulder and saw the German peering at the illuminated dial of a military pocket compass—but the Luger in his other hand was still on the job. He turned to the German, who was putting the compass back in his pocket. “I’ll go with you,” said Tremblay decisively - and out of the corner of his eye he noted his men’s heads turn suddenly toward him. “That little compass you have - it's no good in a small boat because of deviation caused by the engine . . . and there are reefs outside, you know, and cross-currents. You must have a man with you who knows these waters.” “And you know them?” asked the German drily. “I was born near here,” stated Tremblay, conscious of the stares of his crew, who knew well that he was a Baie St. Paul man. The German was no fool. He saw the men stare and he saw the craftiness in the Captain's eyes, so naive that he almost laughed aloud at it. He could trust him as far as he could see him — and not even that far in a small boat. “Good,” he said. “Get into the boat, then, and start the engine.” Tremblay’s stomach felt cold. He had tried to make the man suspect a trap, and he did not know whether he had succeeded. He turned and swung over the schooner's rail and dropped into the boat under her counter. The German moved up and straddled the rail so that he could watch both Tremblay and the men on deck. The Captain set about priming the engine. After a preliminary cough or two it spluttered to life. The Nazi swung his other leg over the rail. “You make one move from where you are and I'll shoot your Captain,” he threatened the three men on deck, and then he, too, dropped into the boat. “Cast off those ropes and then get back aboard,” he ordered Tremblay. “Back aboard?” echoed the Captain. “Maybe you know these waters too well. Get back,” snapped the German reaching for the clutch lever, and as the other took a grip on the ropes hanging over the schooner's stern he eased it forward. The propeller bit the water and the boat shot forward and was swallowed up in the windy darkness. As Captain Tremblay climbed over the rail the three men on the St. Casimir's deck looked at one another and then all broke out talking at once. The Captain said nothing but made straight for the cabin, where he slumped onto a chair by the table on which still lay the battered green pilot book, open as he had left it. The others followed him in, jabbering. “Why did you offer to take him?” demanded one of the deck hands angrily. The Captain looked up wearily. “Because I wanted him to go alone. I remembered your Marie, Jacques, back in Baie St. Paul. She seemed too eager for the wedding, so you jilted her.” The deck hand’s puzzled look slowly gave way to one of understanding. Suddenly the engineer broke in. “Shouldn’t we go ashore and find a telephone?” he asked. “Perhaps a patrol boat could be warned to pick him up.” The Captain roused himself. “Telephone? Yes one of you had better report about the submarine.” “But the airman,” insisted the engineer. "Couldn’t they—” “They won’t get him,” stated the Captain. The finality of his tone fixed their questioning glances on him, and in explanation he pushed the open pilot book across the table towards them. “Read that,” he said, pointing to a paragraph. “It’s what I was studying after supper.” The engineer picked up the St. Lawrence River Pilot and read the paragraph aloud. “ 'The Mouth of the Saguenay River . . . The ebb tide from the Saguenay River on meeting the ebb from the St. Lawrence sets up very heavy tide rips, so strong as to interfere with the steerage of a vessel. When these ebbs are opposed to a heavy easterly gale, a particularly dangerous cross-sea is raised, which is considered dangerous to small craft, and in which no boat could live’.” The End The Sitting Duck (Published in The Montreal Standard, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEOFFREY TRAUNTER THE LANDING BARGE lay as still as if she were floating on the fog rather than upon the waters of the North Sea. Somewhere, invisible, the sun was rising, and slowly the thick fog turned from black to grey. For the first time in hours the R.C.N.V.R. Lieutenant on the bridge could see the lines of his ship before him—that is if a medium sized landing barge can be said to have any lines at all. Lieutenant McNeil doubted it, and never could look at the scow-like bulk of his craft without seeing in his imagination the dashing motor-torpedo-boat he had hoped to command. At her very best speed his landing barge could hardly be called dashing, and for the greater part of an hour she had been anything but — she had been left powerless by a defective unit in her reduction gear. McNeil resisted the urge to go below again to see how repairs were progressing. He might as well stay where he was, and if he was sweating with impatience he knew well that the Petty Officer below was sweating too — sweating blood to get the repairs effected. Somewhere to the south and east was the attacking-force of which his craft was supposed to be a part — by now it should be fifteen miles away and almost grounding on the long, low sandy beaches of the Belgian coast, but there had been no sound of gunfire as yet. When his engines had failed he had had simply to drop out of the armada, the dense fog and strict radio silence preventing from letting even the commanding officer know of his plight. NO ONE but the commander of the force knew whether this attack was part of the real thing, the invasion itself, or merely one of the dress rehearsals or feints promised by the Prime Minister. Whatever it is, thought the Lieutenant as he gazed down into the waist of his ship, it will have to get along without those two tanks. He could just see them now, crouched one behind the other, facing the closed ramp at the bow, and their crews lounging round them and smoking. Suddenly McNeil raised his head and listened. Then he glanced at the Leading Seaman in the other wing of the bridge. He, too, had heard the faint throbbing and was peering into the blankness of the fog ahead. The Lieutenant crossed to him. “What do you make of it?” he asked quietly. “Sounds quite close, sir, but faint. Certainly not an aircraft — might be an M.T.B. or an E-boat throttled right down.” They listened again and the subdued hum continued, punctuated once by a faint clang. The killick swung toward McNeil. “Sub, sir!” he whispered urgently. “Surfaced and charging her batteries — that clang could have been a hatch-cover.” “Go forward,” ordered McNeil, “and tell ’em to keep completely quiet. Send someone below to tell the engine-room, too — and find out how much longer they’ll be.” “Aye, aye, sir.” The Leading Seaman slid down the ladder into the waist of the barge. The Lieutenant went from one to the other of the machine-gun crews at either end of the bridge and warned them. Their weapons were designed to ward off low-flying aircraft, and would be practically useless against the sub’s gun. The sun’s warmth could now be felt, and soon the fog would thin away. “That’ll be the pay-off,” thought McNeil, and resolved that while landing barges usually were known by numbers rather than by names, this one might well go down in history as “The Sitting Duck.” “Don’t know about history,” he added aloud, “but we might well go down.” THE IRONY of the situation struck him. For months as the junior officer in a Fairmile he had patrolled the Strait of Gibraltar hoping for a chance at a sub, and the nearest they had got was to let fly at a rock awash in the seas in the grey light of a dawn such as this. In consequence they had become the butt of their flotilla until a few weeks later when their flotilla leader made the same mistake himself with the same rock. Now, here he was with a sub within three hundred yards, and instead of commanding the M.T.B. or Fairmile that he had hoped for when he got his second stripe, instead of having a fighting ship to meet this opportunity, all he had under his feet was a glorified ferry-boat. The men were still lounging by their tanks, but their little motions and gestures of a moment ago had ceased. They were very still, very quiet. The Leading Seaman silently rejoined the Lieutenant on the bridge. He looked straight up into the sky above the ship, and then peered again towards the source of the steady humming. “Fog’s getting thinner, sir,” he said. “Whatever it is, it seems to be dead ahead.” McNeill resisted a light-headed temptation to say, “Wish it were dead, ahead,” and at that moment the Leading Seaman stiffened and pointed. Right over the ramp at the bows McNeil could make out a darker blur of fog. “Oh for a gun, a real gun,” he thought, and then swung towards the killick. “Lower the ramp,” he ordered, and threw himself down the ladder and made for the sergeant in charge of the forward tank, leaving the killick wondering if the Lieutenant had gone crazy. FOR MONTHS of the tank gunner's training he had been prepared to deal with various beach defences. Now as the ramp before him ponderously swayed outwards and sloped away to a level position he saw, framed in the gap, the silhouette of a submarine against the receding fog. “Gaw’ love me,” he muttered, spinning wheels efficiently, “join the Army and see the world." Figures rushed to the sub’s gun and it swung towards the landing barge. The tank gunner fired and as the barge shuddered at the shock there was a great splash close to the sub’s conning-tower. A shell from the sub screamed over the barge, carrying away the wireless mast. “Get his gun, blast you!” yelled McNeil in the general direction of the tank. He was back on the bridge and on either side of him the machine-guns were chattering ineffectually, for the sub’s gunners were protected by a gunshield. He afterwards thought that, though his words were inaudible in the surrounding bedlam, he had been rather rude to the tank gunner who, after all, was performing somewhat in the capacity of a guest artist. The tank’s second shell was over, but its third took the sub’s gun fair and square, and that was that. The figures on the sub's conning-tower disappeared and slowly her deck became awash — she was submerging. “Red, one-four-five, a ship, sir,” called the Leading Seaman. "Destroyer - one of the Hunt class, sir.” McNeil gave it a brief glance and then went on watching the disappearing conning tower. The sub had moved forward and was no longer ahead of the barge – the tank gunner could no longer see his target. IN A MATTER of seconds the destroyer plowed through the swirl left by the U-boat and let go a pattern of depth-charges. “That ought to fix 'em,” muttered the killick. Apparently the destroyer thought so too, for she paid no further attention to the sub but swung in a wide arc and steamed past fifty yards from the landing barge. MacNeil could see a figure in the wing of her bridge, and a megaphone pointed in his direction. “Quite a fighting ship you have there,” came the voice. “Good luck!” and the destroyer melted into the remnants of the fog, bent on her own urgent affairs. As an engine room artificer stepped up to MacNeil and said, “All set now, sir,” far to the southeast all hell broke loose. “The Sitting Duck” hauled up her ramp and set off towards it. The End Surprise Party Published in "The Standard" (date unknown, $20.00!) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY ROY DYER HIS SUBMARINE idling at periscope depth in the cold waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Ober- leutnant Seidel watched the plume of smoke climb over the horizon. It was still too early to figure the ship’s course and manoeuvre into effective range, and far too early to identify the type of ship. “Well,” he thought to himself, “at least she is no Banks fishing schooner—not with that plume of smoke.” He still regretted the expenditure of his last but one torpedo on that fisherman two nights ago. She had been running under auxiliary power, and with her stump masts he had mistaken her size in the gathering darkness. An investigation of her wreckage with the sub's searchlight had revealed several broken-backed dories and a mess of cleaned and salted codfish, and his second in command had looked for a moment as though he wanted to laugh. Ah, well, the destroyed schooner didn’t look so badly in the sub's logbook as “motor-driven coastal cargo ship.” Oberleutnant took another long look at the approaching vessel. She was no destroyer, anyway—her slow speed and broad beam told him that. He made out derricks on her foremast—that ruled out a corvette. She was steaming almost at right angles to his bows, and would pass about two miles ahead of him. He decided to close in, and grated an order to his second. The order echoed from man to man in the steel hull, and the sub began to move. Five minutes passed, and then Seidel slipped off his stool. “What do you make of her?” he asked his second in command, motioning him towards the eyepiece. That officer peered for a minute. “Flushdecked,” he muttered, “A tanker, sir but . . .” He hesitated, still peering. “But what?” “Her engines are amidships, sir. Unusual for a tanker.” Seidel took up his position at the periscope again and had another look. Then he lowered the periscope below the surface, ordered half-speed, and turned a superior smile on his puzzled second. No wonder the fellow was puzzled, thought Seidel—the ship was unusual, all right, but he knew what she was. Just before the war he had been on a training cruise and had put in at Bergen, and there he had seen a vessel with a peculiar stern like that. “She’s a whale factory,” he said, and laughed at the expression on the other’s face. “The Norwegians had such ships before the war — South Atlantic, mostly. There is a great ramp in the stern, and they used to pull a whale’s carcass aboard whole and do all the work of a whaling station while keeping up with the trawlers that did the actual harpooning. Our friends must be very short of ships if they’re using that tub for cargo-carrying.” He took another sight at the ship. He could see her ensign flying from a gaff on her mainmast, but it was either too dirty or too distant for him to tell whether it was Norwegian or British. His thoughts went to the single torpedo in the forward tubes, and to the long trip home. Then he looked at the expressionless face of his second in command and made his decision. He didn't want it said that he had expended his last two torpedoes on a fishing schooner and a whale factory, of all things. “We’ll surface and attack by gunfire,” he said. Bells rang and the gun crew got ready for their dash to action stations. The sub lifted towards the surface. ABOARD the ex-Norwegian whale-factory Odda a lookout had reported a periscope off the starboard bow, distant the best part of a mile. Gongs had clanged for action stations, and the ship held her course. The R.C.N.V.R. lieutenant on her bridge was pleased. “Not forty miles from where the Coastal Patrol plane reported wreckage of that schooner yesterday,” he thought. He glanced astern over his strange command and saw the men who handled the smoke-pots at their stations right aft. He could not see the old whale-ramp because of the superstructure amidships, but he could imagine the scene there . . . the fifty foot motor-launch in her sliding crib, her bow towards the Odda’s stern, her high-powered, specially cooled engines warmed and idling, her crew tense and watching the great steel flap which cut off the after end of the ramp from the sea, the rows of depth charges on the launch’s after deck. “Sub on starboard beam!" Two lookouts dead-heated on the shout. There she was, white water pouring from her decks, about half a mile off. As her gun crew swarmed on deck a machine-gun from the Odda started an intermittent chattering, and a gun crew staged a well-rehearsed rush for their antiquated weapon mounted on a bridge-like structure over the ramp astern. When their first shot eventually got away it raised a spout of foam just where they wanted it—three hundred yards wide of the sub and a little short. The first shell from the sub screamed over the Odda’s bows. The second hulled her forward, at the waterline. The lieutenant on the bridge thought of the watertight bulkheads and the whale-oil tanks now crammed with buoyant lumber, and grinned. His quartermaster, according to plan, swung the ship towards the sub to close the distance, and the sub altered course to port to evade any ramming action by the Odda . Another shell from the sub crossed the Odda’s bows and a fourth burst on the superstructure abaft her funnel. The whale-factory’s machine-gun fell silent, but it had not been hit. The smoke-pots astern burst into acrid life and their contents billowed over and around the Odda’s stern. The lieutenant snapped an order and a clang from far astern told him that the great flap had been lifted, and he could imagine the released crib sliding smoothly aft with its load. "Surprise, surprise!” he murmured happily to nobody in particular. The motor-launch’s heavily guarded screws were already turning as she took the water, and then she was out of the smoke and roaring for the sub, a heavy machine-gun on her bow searching for the gun crew, and echoed by renewed fire from the Odda’s guns. OBERLEUTNANT SEIDEL knew all about the “Q-ships” of the last war. He was not to be fooled by them, but this was different. He took one more amazed look at the grey shape bouncing towards him, ordered a crash dive, and threw himself down the conning-tower hatch. His gun crew, less three men who had been hit, scuttled for safety. As the sea foamed over the submerging U-boat the launch roared past parallel to her, not twenty feet away, and two ash-cans set for eight fathoms plopped into her seething wake. The Oberleutnant’s thoughts at this moment, freely translated into English, would have been “Let’s get to hell out of here,” which is precisely where he got. The End Down To Heaven (Published in “The Standard” Montreal, September 27, 1941, $12.50!) By L. EVANS He dropped to Earth and thought he was in heaven HIS packed parachute bumped clumsily against the back of his thighs as he crossed the dark field towards the sound of the idling motors. He tried to make himself believe that this was just another practice, that he was still in training, but the horrible emptiness in his middle gave him the lie. He was scared, and he was thankful that the darkness hid his face. He and his companions groped their way into the big transport and sat down. A dim light forward showed them the pilot and navigator, their heads bent over a map. Helmut stared at them fixedly, hoping that concentration of his mind would prevent him from being sick — sick with fear. Their job was simple, he thought. They just had to fly high to certain points, dump their living cargo, and fly home. Compared with his job theirs seemed easy, safe, comfortable. IT was the unknown that frightened a man thought Helmut. The plane crew knew what to expect in the way of danger - attack by fighter planes, anti-aircraft fire, or forced landing on land or sea. But he - Helmut - how could he know what was in store for him? Death, probably; death or capture certainly. But how? Before or after he had done his job on the power plant? How? A sentry’s rifle? A night watchman’s baton? A farmer’s pitchfork? Helmut shuddered and closed his eyes. The plane took off, climbed gradually, and steadied on its course. There’s the difference, thought Helmut suddenly. The plane crew’s brightest hope is return, and my brightest hope is capture. The very best I can expect is capture and internment. A fine thing my life is, when prison seems like heaven! The plane droned on through the black night, flying very high and very steadily. The parachutists began fidgeting with their equipment. They’re scared too, thought Helmut, but the younger ones, anyway, are partly afraid of failing in their task. They know only this stern life, and they are efficient. So am I, or I wouldn’t be here, but I am older. I can remember another way of life. The navigator made a signal, and two men moved towards the door. Another signal, and they were gone. The plane altered course, and in a few moments the navigator’s gloved hand reappeared. Two more men dived into darkness. MY objective is the third we come to thought Helmut, and the waiting is over. I am not afraid of the jump - I know all about that part of the job. I fear only the unknown future. The glove moved and Helmut flung himself into the blackness and cold. The opening ’chute jerked him savagely, and gradually his dizzy swinging slowed down. As he drifted downwards he tried to figure the direction and force of the wind, if any. That was the first thing - to fix his own position, and then to find the power plant. The little fear he felt about landing was lost in the great fear of the unknown future, and he felt little relief when he dropped on open ground, though it might have been a wood or a power line. His, efficient training showed as he quickly got rid of his parachute. He did not have to think - his hands busied themselves and the complicated tangle of ropes and material was stowed under a stunted bush. Luminous compass in hand, Helmut crouched, listening. The silence terrified him. He felt the whole hostile countryside of England round him, deadly still, but ready at any moment to extinguish this lone enemy by some unknown unpredictable action. Helmut forced himself to read the compass, putting it on the ground and getting as far from it as sight permitted, so that the metal in his equipment would not affect the needle. He was supposed to have been dropped two miles south of his objective; so he started to move northwards. If he did not find it in the first half hour he would start circling east and west. He crept on across the field, surprised that it took him so long to reach its boundary. He expected a hedge - England was covered with hedges, they said. HE encountered no hedge - he came to wire. A fine seven foot barbed wire fence, and on each side a barbed wire apron, arranged with ingenuity. Helmut stared at it in amazement. According to his instructions the power plant was the only important point in the district, and therefore the only one likely to be so protected. Could he have hit upon it already? He could cut his way through the fence, but those aprons would take time. He decided to move along the fence to the west, and perhaps he would find a spot where the aprons were less formidable. A hundred and fifty yards to the west he stopped. The fence made a right-angle turn - to the south. Helmut was inside the angle. His training made him turn east, retrace his steps, and he moved faster than before, with less regard for stealth. Two hundred yards or so, and another angle - turning south. His stomach cold as ice, Helmut threw one look over his shoulder and started cutting the wire. Whether he was inside the defenses of the plant or not he would need some means of exit. He would make a passage through the wire, and then find out what lay to the south. He cut rapidly and the apron gradually yielded a passage. Suddenly he paused. Someone was coming - a sentry? A flashlight flicked on and off. Helmut’s training sent his hand towards his gun. A cut end of wire scraped on the shears in his left hand. The flashlight’s beam cut the darkness, wavered, and then fixed on him. Helmut froze. A safety catch clicked. So this was the unknown. “Don’t move,” commanded the advancing voice. Then - “Wot the ’ell! It’s a ruddy parashooter! Come out of that, Jerry, you’re home. You’ve landed inside an internment camp." The End NEXT PAGE

Tadoussac Historical Photos and Stories - History of Tadoussac Cap à Jack on the Saguenay River 1911-1935 Cap à Jack was a cabin built by Dean Lewis Evans in about 1911. He was a keen fisherman, and he could be closer to his favorite spots early in the morning and in the evening, when the fish are biting. There were many visitors and activities. A cabin to go to from the cottage in Tadoussac! Cap à Jack était une cabane construite par Dean Lewis Evans environ 1911. Il était un pêcheur passionné, et il pourrait être plus proche de ses endroits préférés tôt dans la matinée et en soirée, lorsque le poisson mord. Il y avait de nombreux visiteurs et activités. Une cabine pour aller partir du chalet à Tadoussac! Where was it? Cap à Jacques is the rocky point just below St Etienne, about 9 miles up the Saguenay from Tadoussac. Où était-il? Cap à Jacques est la pointe rocheuse juste en dessous de St Etienne, environ 9 miles de Tadoussac sur la rivière Saguenay. How did they get there? The "Minota" Emily and Lewis Evans and their son Lewis Evans, my father, about 1917 Comment sont-ils arrivés? Le «Minota" Emily et Lewis Evans et leur fils Lewis Evans, mon père, environ 1917 Coming ashore below the cabin in 1912, and today Venant à la rivage au-dessous de la cabine en 1912, et aujourd'hui The Bathing Pool is small natural pool with rocks at the entrance, only accessible by boat at high tide. Recently visited by 'Webbling'! Le bassin de baignade est petite bassin naturel avec des rochers à l'entrée, uniquement accessible par bateau à marée haute. récemment visitée par 'Webbling'! Emily (Bethune) Evans 1913 - some guests, and R Lewis Evans, age 2, and his father Dean Lewis Evans, age 67 Emily (Bethune) Evans and Dean Lewis Evans Lennox Williams, Sydney Williams, and Willie Rhodes, my mother's grandfather le grand-père de ma mère Tea at Cap à Jack, the Dean, and the other fellow is Hal Bethune R Lewis Evans and Cecily Larratt Smith Aunt Vera Bethune, Aunt Marion Bethune, Dad - Dean Lewis Evans, Marjorie Gagnon Emily (Bethune) Evans Dean Lewis Evans died in 1919 at the age of 74 Dean Lewis Evans est mort en 1919 à l'âge de 74 ans circa 1926, R Lewis Evans with his gun, May Carrington Smith, Nan Gale, Ann (Dewart) Stevenson, Maggie(Reilley) Smut the dog, Emily (Bethune) Evans, Kae Evans, the Stevenson sisters, Elizabeth (O'Neill) (note camera), Maggie (Reilley), Ann (Dewart), May Carrington Smith, Nan Gale The Stevenson sisters, Elizabeth (O'Neill), Ann (Dewart), Maggie (Reilley) Kae Evans Marjorique and Basil Evans with fishing gear Cap à Jack was dismantled in about 1935 Cap à Jack a été démantelé environ 1935 43