27 August 2015

from Saguenay to Øresund

27 August 2015

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Thursday 27 August 2015--Marc asks first thing today to go see La Petite Maison Blanche, "the little white house" that is Saguenay's symbol of resilience in the face of the great flood. The neighborhood in which it sat, close by the Rivière Chicoutimi, was entirely washed away when a dike was breached at Lac Kenogami, all but this one modest house. Canadian television viewers saw the scene again and again, the raging torrent rushing all around and even through the tiny dwelling. With all of the soil stripped away, we can see that the house was saved partly by its sturdy foundation, fixed firmly to the bedrock. As important, I think, was the raised ledge directly behind it, which likely diverted the brunt of the current to either side. The scoured landscape is now a city park, and the house itself a museum devoted to the disaster.

Then we are off for a circuit of Lac St-Jean. We have identified no fewer than five brewpubs we might see along the way, although it seems unlikely that we could visit them all (not to mention unwise). When we started planning our trip, we thought mostly about the places we wanted to see and the things we wanted to do. As we did research, microbrasseries popped up everywhere along our route. At some point, we almost unconsciously accepted that we were going on a beer tour. The notion, after all, was not a disagreeable one, for either of us.

We drive up the valley of the Saguenay and arrive shortly at the village of St- Gédéon, on the lake's eastern shore. The Microbrasserie du Lac St-Jean is on Rue de la Plage, Beach Street, and we drive past the pub to the end of the street, hoping to get a look at the lake. The road comes to a T at the backside of a barrier island. We get a good look at the lagoon, but all of the waterfront is taken up with private property, and there is no view for us. Disappointed, we return to the pub and find it opening at 11:30. It has a nice homey atmosphere, and a handsome terrasse out front, which would be perfect if only it looked out over the beach. We enjoy a pint, and take away a few bottles for the cooler.

The road down around the south of the lake runs close to the shore, but still there is no view, until we come to a rest area atop a modest rise. Now the full scope of Lac St-Jean lies before us. The lake is about 27 miles long and 15 miles wide. Apparently, it's an impact crater, or at least the very bottom of one-- the surrounding land appears to be a broad shallow bowl, more than a hundred miles across, which I take to be the larger part of the crater. Or perhaps some other geological process has formed this. Much of the land close to the lake is cultivated, and much of what else we see is scrubby woodland and bog. It is traditionally the home of trappers and their prey.

Years ago, I had a coworker named Gaston who was from this area. Now, looking at the lake, I remember his peculiar accent, one which I know the city dwellers of Québec and Montréal would regard as that of a bumpkin. "Lac Saint-Jean," I say aloud, in imitation of Gaston. Marc bursts into laughter, and makes me promise not to talk like that in earshot of any of the locals.

Our next stop is St-Félicien, a few miles up the Rivière Ashuapmushuan ("place where one lies in wait for moose") from the western end of the lake. We find the microbrasserie La Chouape in a small storefront along the main street, but it won't open for a couple of hours yet. Reluctantly, we move on to Dolbeau, along the Rivière Mistassini. There is a funny little downtown here, seemingly surrounded by commercial strips. There is, in fact, what appears to be a fairly large shopping mall down at the end of the street. I'm not a mall rat by any means, and I know that one shopping mall is pretty much like another, but for some reason I am always curious to see what such venues look like in odd places like this. Fortunately, I guess, my traveling companions are usually more sensible. Anyway, we're here to see the local brewpub, which, in a nod to trapping history, is called Coureur des Bois, serving bières sauvages. It's empty midafternoon, save for the barmaid, and we chat with her over a pint while admiring the trapper- themed décor. I wonder idly what this place is like on a Friday night, and decide that it's just as well I won't find out. The mental image I have of deerskin-clad trappers pouring out of the woods for a night of drunken revelry is undoubtedly very far off-base; nonetheless, the reality of a small town weekend here on the edge of the Québecois backwoods is likely a bit too sauvage for me.

We finish the lake tour along the north side, which is dull enough to make us think that maybe we should have backtracked to La Chouape. In fact, we haven't seen the lake, really, since the overlook in the south. We stop in Jonquière, the third major town folded into the municipality of Saguenay, to visit the microbrasserie Hopera. The punny name is a bit lame, but the pub is nice, and the effusiveness of the greeting we get impresses Marc, who spent a lot of years in the hospitality industry. We have a pint, and then stick our noses in the flagship location of La Voie Maltée, down the street, just for a look.

Dinner this evening is in the hotel restaurant. It's busy, but after spending the day in mostly empty pubs, we rather enjoy the bustle. Eavesdropping on the table of half a dozen women next to us is entertaining enough. Our drive through the countryside today was a bit disappointing, as far as scenery is concerned; bagging a few brewpubs made it worthwhile.

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