(1.) Memories of a 5000-km canoe odyssey

These are pictures of me. But the person in the first photo is not the same person as in the second photo. I changed alot in the eight months between pictures. 

Both photographs have rivers in the background. In one, we can see the Frenchman River with its wolf willow, which the renowned author Wallace Stegner described. Stegner grew up in Eastend, Saskatchewan where the picture was taken and his boyhood home, still standing, is a short distance away from the banks of this small and meandering prairie stream. 

The point where I'm standing along the Frenchman is where I launched my canoe on a day in June a few years ago. Of all the cargo on board, nothing was more important than my uncle Mitch Hamon's ashes. He had died at a young age of a heart attack the year before and to honour his life I decided to spread his ashes in New Orleans, a city he loved for its food and music. The trip would allow me to raise awareness about heart disease and be the adventure of a lifetime. 

After leaving Canada, I crossed the United States at three miles an hour and reached New Orleans. The journey took eight months and covered a distance of over 3000 miles or 5000 kilometres. During that experienced, I transformed. In the first picture, I look somewhat naive. I didn't really know what I was getting myself into. In the second picture, I look confident. I knew what I could do and I was more excepting of what I couldn't. 

Between the thunderstorms and tornadoes; between the guns and tears, there was also scenic beauty. Canoeing to New Orleans was also a photographic journey, one I'd like to share here. 

The Frenchman River winds its way with pristine grasslands as it carries water from the Cypress Hills of southern Saskatchewan into the Mississippi River basin. Few people know that the rivers in southern Alberta and Saskatchewan flow toward the Gulf of Mexico. 

This is the border. Canada is on the right and America is on the left. There's enough room under the wires to pass with a canoe. All you need is the right paperwork. 

Speaking of left and right, the Frenchman (on the left) meets the Milk River (on the right) near Saco, Montana. There are more trees along the Milk River compared to the Frenchman. 

Some Fourth of July fireworks in Hinsdale, Montana. By the way, the best hamburgers I've ever had are served at the bar in Hinsdale. 

My parents met me along the Milk River and we paddled together for a few days as I approached the Missouri River. My uncle Mitch was my mom's youngest brother. 

After my parents left, I went about six weeks on my own, but saw some amazing sunsets along the way. 

In August, my cousin Chantal Hamon joined me in the Dakotas and we made s shrine to our uncle along the Missouri River.  M'Nonc means uncle in French. 

This is Bob. He's one of the many people who helped me along the way. After driving me to get groceries, Bob took me to Sitting Bull's monument. Bob was a retired music teacher who spent a good portion of his career in Saudi Arabia. He had been hunting in Afghanistan three times before the Soviet invasion. 

This is the most stereotypically American picture of my journey. Notice the boxes of ammunition that are conveniently located in the produce department. 

Summer lost its splendor and gave way to fall. 

I reached the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers in November. This meeting of the waters occurs a few miles north of St. Louis, Missouri. 

One of the most mind-blowing experiences was to discover headstones written in French in Missouri. The graves are from a time when colonists from New France farmed along the Mississippi River. 

Further south in Louisiana, the remnants of sugar cane farming and the wealth generated by slave labour are still evident, as in this antebellum home outside of New Orleans. 

Within a mile or two of my destination, I got stopped by the US Coast Guard. They wanted to know why I was on the river and where I had come from. Notice the machine gun on the front of their boat. 

I reached New Orleans at the end of January and rented an apartment as I patiently waited three weeks for a parade known as the Krewe of Sainte Anne. Thousands of people participate and virtually everyone wears a costume. Many of the marchers carry the ashes of their loved ones. The parade ends along of the Mississippi River where people spread the ashes of the departed, as did I. 

Bye M'Nonc, merci pour tout pis j'vais jamais t'oublier.