Paddling Through Depression Era Europe: Eight Countries by Canoe & Kayak

By J. Stannard Baker

"You paddled across the Atlantic?"Exclaimed a French villager upon learning that this young American couple had just paddled up the raging Rhone River. This was a typical encounter for J. Stannard Baker (Stan) and his wife Fran. It was 1931, and they were on a four-month-long paddling adventure through eight countries in depression-era Europe.They paddled their Canadian canoe through France and Switzerland. For most French it was their first encounter with a canoe, and they thought these Americans were crazy. When the canoe was accidentally destroyed, they bought a German folding kayak and joined Germans in their kayaking adventures. They then continued padding through Austria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Holland, and Belgium.This book recounts their adventures in fascinating detail—leisurely canal paddling, hitching tows behind horse-drawn barges, enduring terrifying whitewater and having a nearly fatal steamboat encounter. They camped on river or canal banks, in farmers' fields, stayed in German canoe club hostels, and explored villages and cities. All provided humorous encounters with locals so richly described here.Baker and his wife captured stunning photographs and took copious notes. They recorded every fact, figure, and engaging encounter. This remarkable and historically important first-person account, takes you back in time and deep into the hearts of the peoples of Europe before transatlantic encounters were common. It is now available to the public for the first time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stannard Press
• Release date: Feb 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781732268029

Book preview

BORDEAUX

TO

AVIGNON

BY CANOE

27 Days

633 Kilometers

4 Canals

3 Rivers

Here was our transportation for the next four months, a canoe fresh from the factory in Canada

LA GARONNE

Southwestern France

The days of freedom began with a rendezvous at Bordeaux. There we went to meet the accomplice who was to help us in escaping from what seemed to be a life sentence on that rock pile called the American big city. The appointment was for nine o’clock in the morning of April 14, 1931. The place was No. 3 in the narrow Rue Lafayette, down by the quai. Old Monsieur Chatenet, expéditeur, was to introduce us.

We were all eagerness to meet the third member of our party. Who wouldn’t be after three weeks of traveling, three months of planning, and three years of dreaming! Yet there still might be some slip, some delay. We could hardly wait to ask M. Chatenet, Has she—has she come yet?

Ah, Monsieur Baker, all our arrangements were perfect! She has just arrived by the last boat and at this precise moment she attends you below.

Then we are ready to go.

We were led from the ancient office through a narrow corridor and down a squeaky stairway into a warehouse crowded with boxes, hampers, roped trunks, and dingy old barrels. The dim light of a single bulb shone through the dusty air where three men were noisily opening a long crate. The old man stopped. "Voici, mes amis, he said triumphantly, sweeping his arm in the direction of the crate. There, my friends, is your little boat."

There, indeed, was our means of transportation for the next three or four months. Under the skilled hands of M. Chatenet’s workmen, the trim canoe in neat grey fresh from the factory in Canada, emerged from her burlap and straw. We liked her the minute we saw her.

* * * * *

By the time our duffel had been fetched from the hotel to the place we had picked for embarkation, M. Chatenet’s truck had arrived with our new craft. The Quai Louis XVIII was handy, but being right in front of the Bordeaux Bourse and alongside a ferry landing, it was not particularly private. As a matter of fact, it was soon clear that our plans for a modest departure were doomed. We had invited to be present our only friend, M. Verges, local representative of the Standard Oil Company, and his assistant; but the Chatenet truckmen lingered about, trying not to seem curious; so did a couple of gendarmes who happened by as we arrived. In a few minutes a dozen sailors were leaning over the taffrail of a British freighter moored just below; some street cleaners discovered that the cobblestone quai needed attention; and several old women with baskets suddenly changed their minds about the importance of getting to market so early. The rest were just onlookers who stood around in ever-increasing numbers with frank curiosity, hands deep in pockets of baggy trousers and chins pulled down into black mufflers wrapped around their necks.

Nothing was to be gained by hurrying, for the tide still had to change in our favor. While we waited we busied ourselves unlashing the paddles, tying on a painter and dusting out the last of the straw. In the meantime our craft came in for no end of admiring comment from the Frenchmen, and we were obliged to answer as well as we could, with our makeshift French and the help of M. Vergez, a barrage of questions that shifted gradually from our boat to our plans:

"Quel jolie bateau!"

"La forme, c’est superbe, n’est-ce pas?"

But, Monsieur and Madame, where will you take this little boat?

To Toulouse by the canal, we replied. To the Mediterranean, possibly even farther.

But no, it is impossible! Perhaps you have a little motor also?

No, we shall use our arms, we assured them, going through the motions of paddling.

They shook their heads. What courage, what strength! And are you not afraid, Madame?

Fran laughed, shook her head, and added jokingly, I can always swim, you know. That seemed to relieve their anxiety a little, but it surprised them too, for I could catch them whispering to one another admiringly, She can swim. Just think of that!

When we finally decided to go, and I lifted the canoe to slide it into the water, a hush fell over the crowd. They were fascinated, and I became painfully self-conscious. We were in the nightmare-like situation of putting on a show without rehearsal, without prompting, and before a critical audience. If we could just get off without a slip! Thanks to careful planning and previous experience with canoes, our six pieces of baggage fitted in place as if they had grown there. Then I boarded and stood at the edge of the sloping stone quai, still slimy from the receding tide, and called to Fran, who was again thanking M. Vergez for his help.

As she hurried down, Fran drew the attention of the crowd, and every eye was watching when a misstep where the stone was wet sent both feet flying out from under her and left her sitting ignominiously in the slime. I gulped, shut my eyes, and waited for the loud guffaw from the crowd—but it did not come. There was only a murmur of sympathy as M. Vergez and several others rushed forward to help.

Free at last, leaving Quai Louis XVIII in Bordeaux

"Quel dommage! Are you hurt?"

Fran was up and laughing before they reached her, and we blessed Heaven for French courtesy. Our initiation into the vexations of being a public curiosity was complete.

The tail of the outgoing tide carried us past the stern of the British freighter and out into the broad Garonne as we waved goodbye to those on shore and listened to their hearty "Bon voyage." We took a last look westward where the river bends toward the sea, past the piers and ships of this third largest port of France; and then, with a good wind behind, we dug in our blades and headed inland for the Mediterranean.

We were free at last! Yet scarcely an hour had passed since the rendezvous in M. Chatenet’s cobwebby warehouse.

The feel of the paddles, the rhythm of the stroke, the balance of the boat were still with us from our Canadian trips. Our pulses quickened. The sport had begun.

* * * * *

Half a mile above Quai Louis XVIII, from which we had departed, our canoe slid under the old Pont de Bordeaux. Built more than a century ago and long famed as the finest in the world, this massive bridge plods the quarter mile across the river in 17 red masonry spans and marks the upper limit of the harbor. As we glanced back again, one of its great arches framed for a moment the twin spires of St. Andre. Bordeaux already lay behind us. Then, passing a railroad bridge, a few factories, a power plant, some barge terminals, and scattered dwellings, we were in the country.

The spring weather had been made to order: a fresh west breeze, warm bright sun, cloudless sky. The new willow leaves were shiny, grass was green, fruit trees were in bloom, and birds were singing. No wayfarer, especially no paddler, could ask for more, could fail to be stimulated. This was just what we had been seeking, but there was such an abundance of it that we felt guilty in having it lavished on us alone.

When time to eat came, the canoe was simply run ashore on a gravelly beach exposed by the ebb tide at the base of a steep bank. Out from the grub bag came a long loaf of French bread, a can of butter, a fat slice of cheese, two oranges, and a bar of chocolate. With these victuals and trivial conversation we lunched leisurely—a little too leisurely in fact, for the incoming tide obliged us to vacate our dining room before we were quite ready, it came up so suddenly. In half an hour the beach had shrunk in width from 10 feet to 4, and backed thus against the high bank we were obliged to take to the boat again.

Now, however, the current as well as the wind was with us and we quickly put bend after bend behind.

So far as the river was concerned, we might have been voyaging down some stream in Iowa or Illinois. There were the same tawny sandbars, grassy banks, and clumps of trees; beyond there the same gentle hills, newly ploughed fields, and fragrant orchards; but the villages we passed did not remind us of home. Every lot was guarded by a high, stone wall built close up to the street; the white plaster houses with red tile roofs were strange; and immense smug casks of wine lolled in the sun on the river front.

Nor could one forget that this was not America when boats went by. Little tugs grunted past with fat barges clinging on wherever they could, half a dozen of them perhaps, on both sides, in front and behind; and if they were going with the wind, they all blossomed out in patched and sooty canvas hoisted on masts with makeshift spars. From time to time when such a flotilla passed a village, one of the barges would cut loose and make for shore under sail or with the help of squeaky sweeps powered by every man, woman, and child aboard. Sometimes diesel-driven oil barges, lying low in the water, would push noisily by. They made good time and were strong enough not to be held back by the tide like the rest of us.

Late in the afternoon a tug hauling an empty sand boat slowly overtook us, and a swarthy roustabout hanging lazily over the tiller of the barge urged us by signs to pass him a line and take a tow. We accepted the offer of help, but wanting to be free to cast loose whenever we chose, we sprinted up to a heavy dory dragging behind the barges, and ran our painter through a ring in its stern. The bargeman watched.

"C’est plus facile comme ca, n’est-ce pas?" he ventured reflectively.

You are right, we agreed. It is easier this way.

If you had a motor, then it would always be easier, he argued.

Yes, but for sport, we explained, the two of us are motor enough!

Ah, he grinned. "Two sailors—two cylinders. Your motor has two cylinders. Oui, Oui, I understand. His tiller took his attention for a moment and then he turned to us again. But for myself, I prefer a motor."

Our tow did not last long, for the barge halted at a sand dredge and we went to paddling again.

In a venture like ours, there are scores of details which must work themselves out as they come up: what to do in case of illness, how to find safe drinking water, which kind of clothes to wear, and where to spend the nights. The last question had haunted us all day, for the canoeist, following a river and making daily what distances he can, is not always able to plan his journey so as to reach suitable shelter by nightfall. We had brought a little tent so as to be independent of hotels, but would we find camping places, and if so, could we use them? It had always been easy in America, but Europe is different: there are no great open spaces, towns are close together, and people build walls or grow hedges to keep trespassers out.

We could have spared ourselves the worry, however, because five o’clock in the afternoon found us in an admirable location. For a mile or so a narrow pasture fringed the river’s edge, and back of it was a basswood forest to keep the wind off. The only signs of life were placid cattle grazing on the opposite bank. Clean, dry and pleasant, it was almost too good to be true. Quickly the duffle was heaved ashore, the canoe lifted out and turned bottom up for the night, the potatoes set to boiling over our little gasoline stove, and the tent pitched. In less than an hour we had established a residence in France!

By the time supper was over and our dishes were washed, night had come. A dog barked on the opposite shore, throaty frogs were tuning up in the woods back of us, and now and then there would be a splash in the silent river, perhaps a fish jumping.

It’s getting colder. Is it eight o’clock yet?

Can’t see.

Shall I light the lantern?

No, I’m going to bed anyhow.

In less than an hour we had established a residence in France

Well, there we were, a Chicago engineer and his wife—university graduates and presumably a promising young couple—asleep on the damp sod of a foreign cow pasture, four thousand miles from home. We were not there by coercion or invitation. Neither a wager nor an accident was the reason for our beds’ being on a riverbank that chilly April night; and it was not for health, profit, or fame that in a year of depression, we had pilfered our savings, deserted good jobs, and given up a comfortable home.

We were out simply for the fun of it!

Of course there were many who did not have it in them to understand such a thing. We learned that over and over again in trying to explain it. Some very sincere people insisted that a voyage like ours could not be pleasant because they would not enjoy it; others scorned the idea because it was not what the best families do; and there were even a few who had been trying so hard and so long to be go getters that their organs of fun, if there were any such organs, had completely atrophied.

Be that as it may, we were doing, for a while at least, exactly what we wanted. We had freedom by the forelock and were determined not to let go.

The big, dirty city with its continual racket, its hurrying hordes of indifferent strangers, and its click-click-click of routine tasks—fascinating as its immense size and complexity may have been—had sickened us. Our tantalizing annual fortnights of vacation only temporarily allayed this yearning for longer escapes. Never exactly dissatisfied, yet always somehow unsatisfied, we began, more and more, to speculate on what we should do if we could choose as we pleased.

First, of course, the usual grandiose ideas came of activities that involved the gaining and spending of a million dollars, or dreams of affairs that would result in blazing newspaper headlines; but there was always the practical difficulty that, not having tried it, we could never be sure that being rich and celebrated was just the thing to bring happiness—it might backfire on us as it sometimes seemed to do. Then one particularly dismal Sunday afternoon when winter with its slush and smoke was settling down on Chicago, we hit upon the idea of exploring our memories for experiences of our own, which we could feel sure if repeated on a grander scale would bring satisfaction.

Fran, who had been there once, proposed a trip to Europe—free this time from all unnecessary tour conductors, churches, museums, and baggage; but I longed to be in the open and held out for a bigger and better canoe cruise. The resultant inevitable compromise was startling to be sure, but too fascinating to be let alone for long.

It was not until months later, when we were actually on our way to a jumping-off place in Southern France, that the principles to govern our enterprise were finally embellished with a whereas and reduced to the following code:

WHEREAS, we, the undersigned vagabonds, discarding prudence and ignoring convention, have sallied forth for the sole purpose of having a prodigious holiday before reaching that age when people begin to wish-they-had-when-they-were-younger, do hereby resolve:

FIRST: To forget what others think we ought to do

SECOND: To live outdoors as much as possible

THIRD: Not to run each other ragged going places

FOURTH: To do what’s fun and quit what’s not

FIFTH: Never to trouble about getting anywhere on time

(Signed) J. S. B.

F. W. B.

N. B. Everything subject to change without notice.

* * * * *

Thirteen hours it took to recuperate from the excitement and exercise of that first day. Thirteen hours elapsed before the burning sun roasted us out of out tent, disheveled, perspiring, bewildered.

A dozen energetic birds were singing as if they had nearly burst themselves trying to wake us; the new leaves on the basswoods, feeling too good to stay still, were fidgeting restlessly in the suave breeze; and the heavy dew was steaming slowly off the brilliant grass. Our muscles were a bit stiff, but altogether less rusty than might be expected after two years of soft city life. There was, however, nothing wrong with our appetites.

Say, get the rice boiling! You can wash your face and comb your hair afterwards.

Will you have prunes in it or raisins?

Both! And put in plenty if you want any left for yourself.

I’ll take care of that, but if you’re in a hurry, find that salt you lost in the dark last night . . . . Open a can of milk . . . . Slice the bread.

During breakfast we discussed the day’s plans. The river had dropped five feet overnight, for the tide, which rises and falls more than twice that much in Bordeaux at this time of year, makes itself felt far inland. Twigs and branches floating rapidly seaward showed that the current was strong and that we had better wait for the tide to change.

Striking our tent and packing up were not, however, to be our only diversions in the hour or so before the current slackened enough to make efforts at the paddles reasonably productive of mileage. We were just through breakfast and still sitting on the grass with our backs against the upturned canoe, when an imperative cry "Allez! Allez!" startled us. It came from close behind. Scrambling to our feet we were confronted by an old woman urging three diffident cows to pass our encampment, which obstructed their path. Our sudden appearance frightened the animals and they lunged clumsily off into the woods, but the peasant seemed unsurprised. There was never even a pause in the rhythmical jerks of the needles on which she was knitting a long red sock. Her ball of yarn shared with a chunk of crusty bread and a green bottle the net bag slung from her arm. A floppy straw hat shaded her weathered face; dung-stained sabots encased her feet; and a long black skirt and petticoat had been fastened halfway up to her knees because of the wet grass. It was clear that her job was to mind the cows from milking time to milking time and to keep the family in socks; but that she was a gentlewoman at heart we could not doubt, for she greeted us kindly and said something which we understood to mean that the cattle would soon find their way back to the strip of grass.

A caller was the last thing we had expected in this secluded place, but a week more of camping in France was to make us thoroughly disappointed if a stop for the night failed to bring at least one visitor to our nomad home. Sometimes they would appear in the evening, sometimes in the morning. Often there would be two or three together. Never obtrusive or disturbing, they were always politely and frankly curious, although they usually tried to cover it up by pretending to be strolling casually past, or by having some small business, like gathering fagots, mowing weeds, or fishing to bring them near our campsite. These neighborly natives were always glad to chat.

In spite of shaky French, Fran was soon explaining to the old lady all about our housekeeping arrangements. Between glances at the cows, she peered into the tent and wrinkled her brow over our stove. I followed the conversation as far as I could, but was soon left floundering behind, discouraged about my progress with the language but immensely proud of Fran’s.

I busied myself with the packing. The old lady watched the process intently, making mental notes of every detail, and I could just see her that night giving to the country folk gathered around the supper table a play-by-play report of our departure.

* * * * *

Fishermen laboriously worked a capstan to haul in their net

We lunched that day near a fishing establishment and, as we ate, watched a crew of 11 men casting and drawing their nets in the same primitive way that their predecessors have been doing one generation after another since the time of the crusades.

They began by dividing into two groups, one of which walked slowly downstream on the bank, dragging the shore end of a long net which the others uncoiled from a heavy boat as they rowed furiously across the stream and back again; thus, by the time the two parties reunited a half kilometer below their starting point, a great loop was formed in the river. Then with a crude windlass they began the tedious job of hauling in. Slowly and solemnly they plodded around and around the creaking capstan until the net was close to shore and they could finish their job hand over hand. For this they put on wooden shoes and tarred aprons, dug their heels into the gravel, and heaved in unison to a sort of guttural chant. As the net came in and was re-piled on the boat, the fish, which had been caught by the gills, were plucked loose and tossed into a box.

I went close to see what luck they had. After three-quarters of an hour of the hardest labor, the 11 men had taken 12 fish, none more than a foot and a half in length; and they told me this was an average haul. In a day, they said, the net could be thrown 10 or perhaps 11 times. I could scarcely believe that this was their means of livelihood and that they could be content, as they apparently were, with a dozen middle sized, pale grey fish to reward each for his 10 hours of toil, to say nothing of his investment in nets, boats, and other equipment.

The afternoon of this second day found us above the point where a rising tide was any help. Our mettle began to be tested. The river narrowed and the hills came closer. Every inch had to be fought out with a current invigorated by melting snow from the mountains and spring rains. Strategy had to supplement strength if any headway was to be made, for we could not paddle hard enough to hold our own in midstream for more than a few minutes at a time.

After three-quarters of an hour the 11 men had but 12 fish

We took advantage, therefore, of every opportunity to sneak up on our adversary and catch him where he was weak. We scanned the surface for swirls and ripples, which marked hard going; we hugged the inner sides of the bends to be where the current was slowest; and, when we were finally forced to fight in the open, we battled doggedly across to the other side where our attack would be more effective. Often we called a truce to rest in an eddy or held our own by clinging to bushes along the shore while we reorganized our forces.

The hardest fights came rounding the wing dams. These stone and timber walls are built straight out from the shore 50 feet or more to force the current into the channel and keep the banks from crumbling. They create pools of still water above and below, but at their outer ends is a mighty swirl of current at which the paddler must rush his canoe with every ounce of strength he has and then stroke furiously until he gains the calmer water above or retreats to recuperate and try again. Each wing dam means an exhausting effort, and there are many, many of them.

Sometimes, however, a stretch of bank free from brush would permit me to go ashore with a stout 75-foot line and tow while Fran steered from on board. Such lining was a welcome way to make progress, for it takes very little extra effort to haul a heavily loaded canoe as fast as one can walk along, even