Hap Wilson's Wilderness 3-Book Bundle. Hap Wilson
of the interior who came from as far away as Lake Superior and the Michipicoten Post.
But by far the most intriguing quality of Thunderhouse is its representation as a place of shamanic practice, in a physical and spiritual rationale. It once marked the division between western Ojibway and eastern James Bay Cree territories. Shamans from both cultures performed ceremonies here. The Conjuring House Rock — a pillar of impervious stone rising seventy-five feet out of the depths of the canyon below the falls, resembles the very shape of the Algonkian shaman’s sacred “shaking tent.” It is little wonder that early Native healers and seekers practised ceremonio-religious rites at this place.
It is purported that the shamans collected magic mushrooms — “shrooms” — that grew along the portage trail, for use in their ceremonies. When I first visited Thunderhouse, and carried my packs over the sixteen-hundred-metre trail, the first thing I noticed was the abundance of Amanita muscaria; easily recognized by its large rust-orange, white-spotted cap and phallic stem. Red squirrels had been collecting the shrooms, and pieces were either eaten out of them or chunks carried up trees and stuffed in the crotches of branches. Amanita muscaria is considered an edible mushroom but depending on the dosage, it could be lightly hallucinogenic. It was used as a winter tonic enhancer and relaxant (in mild doses), and as a hallucinogen (in heavier doses) for ceremonial use. However, muscaria does not have the potency and negative effects of the Psilocybe mushrooms. Psilocybe mushrooms can easily be mistaken for deadly shrooms, whereas the Amanita muscaria is recognizable and autonomous.
The use of magic mushrooms has been verified through archaeological studies and research; evidence for their ceremonial use goes back thousands of years. Several Mesolithic rock paintings from Tassili n’Ajjer (a prehistoric North African site) have been identified as depicting shamanic use of mushrooms. Increased use and dosage carries the possibility of a spiritual event known as “ego death,” whereby the user loses the sense of boundaries between their physical body and the environment, creating a sort of perceived (or real) universal unity — an out-of-body experience. Actual death doesn’t occur, although it is said that the once the soul leaves the body on a journey, the physical being is at risk (from cold, hypothermia, animal attack, falling, injury, etc.). Usually, there is a “keeper of the body” nearby to tend to the shaman’s physical body while the soul is travelling. Poet Dylan Thomas remarks, “… after the first death, there is no other,” which could be translated to mean that once the shaman gets the hang of it, the door into the spirit world opens more readily.
The spirit presence at Thunderhouse is very strong with dual personalities. It can be very angry and dangerous; or elusive, playful, and mischievous. As mentioned in a previous chapter, several people have died here, even experienced canoeists who got lured into the rapids above the falls. Nebaunaubaequae, to the Anshnabeg, was a symbol of the incorporeal nature of the water, appearing to man as a woman, and to woman as a man, seducing or enticing the victim and then drowning them. At Thunderhouse, Neb may very well be manifesting itself as a luring water spirit, tempting canoeists to run the rapids instead of taking the safe route along the portage. It was easy to get caught up in the water-play. Out of curiosity, I solo canoed down the rapids leading to the falls that had been the cause of five deaths and multiple close calls over the years. I’ve run many rapids, rapids more difficult and technical than these, but there was something deathly mysterious about this run. I felt that it had an aura, a drawing effect that pulled you deep into the centre channel away from shore — a dangerous place to be in high water as it was difficult to extricate yourself safely away from the current pulling you toward the falls. Here you could see the calm of the pool at the bottom of the rapids, where the portage trail was marked on the maps — a trail that didn’t exist — and the lure of an easy carry around the gorge was appealing. The falls remains invisible, inaudible, until your canoe passes through a narrow cut in the rock and the river pulls hard to the left as if crouching, waiting for you around the corner of a building. Once there you can’t escape unless you’re very lucky; if you swamp, the current is too strong to fight against … and Nebaunaubaequae claims another victim.
The Paueehnsuk also dwell here; little creatures that reside along the rocky shores who emerge in the evening to play along the dark corridors of the forest. They sit beside your tent at night and enter your dreams, trying to negate the powerful energy and influence of Nebaunaubaequae by sending you messages and warnings. Sometimes they just like to play tricks. Maybe you portaged your camping gear and set up your tent near the precipice overlooking the canyon, and left your canoe at the trailhead thinking you could run the rapids in the morning. Maybe you had a dream that night, something unsettling that made you change your mind about running the rapids above the falls, and you ended up making the long portage, all the time trying to think of why or what changed your mind.
Thunderhouse shaman — a place of strong divination.
Over the past several years I have spoken with individuals who have had extraordinary or preternatural experiences at Thunderhouse. I was astounded at the numbers who have had things happen to them that were unexplainable, bizarre, eerie, and wonderful. Strange occurrences have been recorded as far back as 1781, in the journals of Phillipe Turner, who blamed his Indian porteurs of misplacing a pack while portaging around Thunderhouse Falls. White explorers had no time for Native superstitions, yet his guides insisted that a “devil” had stolen it. Most recent accounts of mysterious happenings, oddly enough, have focused on disappearing equipment. It happened to me.
It was my first trip down the river and I had a mid-size party of clients. I was vaguely aware of the deaths that had occurred at the falls, and of its historical import as a spiritual gathering place. Everything was systematic; we portaged the gear to the campsite and set up at the gorge site across from the Conjuring Rock. We then went back to the trailhead and portaged the four canoes and stacked them at the far end of the carry, just below the gorge on a bedrock terrace. We kept the canoes back from the edge of the river, about fifty feet, leaving my canoe on the outside so I could come back later and take it out to scout for firewood. I remember pushing my lifejacket and paddles under my canoe. High water had left driftwood in remnant piles along the outside bend of the gorge. The current was strong, funneling through the gorge just upstream and pushing hard downriver toward Hell’s Gate. The movement of water through the rock walls of the canyon created its own eerie wind — light, cool, and pulsing with the surge and flow of the current. There was always uneasiness here.
We ate dinner with an hour left of evening light. The alpenglow on the canyon wall across the river ascended as the sun slipped behind the trees of the campsite. At these places I keep a vigilant eye on the clients; there was a hundred-foot cliff only metres from the pitched tents and, after a couple of shots of rum, the day’s wear and tear can make them careless. Nobody had moved from the campsite since we carried the canoes across, and I knew no other canoeists had come through that day, as the portage trail went right by the campsite. I wanted to check on the canoes; for some reason I had the impulse to walk to the end of the portage.
Walking the half kilometre to the end of the trail I saw that the canoes were still neatly stacked. I was about to turn around and go back when I took a second look. Something definitely was different. I walked over to the canoes and saw that mine was gone — even the lifejacket and two paddles. All my clients were accounted for and no one had come down to the river, and no other paddlers had come through. I walked to the river edge and looked downriver but saw no sign of my canoe. It was a seventeen-foot, eighty-pound expedition canoe — it wouldn’t just blow off the site on its own. Even with a freak wind funnel, it was too heavy. And where were my paddles and lifejacket?
I grabbed another canoe and borrowed a client’s lifejacket and put it on. All I could do was to paddle downriver and hope my canoe had gotten hung up on a rock; it was unlikely, though, because of the current and rapids that now went on for at least fifteen kilometres. It seemed hopeless. What was I going to do with one less canoe? What was I going to tell the group? I slipped the canoe into the water and was about to shove off, heading downstream, when something caught my eye upstream. It was my canoe, and it was moving of its own volition, up against the current, rounding a bend