The beginning
August 31st, in the early morning, the very early morning. I've been rushing, afraid I might miss the train; in the end, I'm the first of our team to arrive at Montreal's Central Station. Passengers were pushing and shoving toward the turnstiles, most of them getting off suburb trains to go to work, others leaving for Toronto, and, who knows, maybe even some adventurous souls going all the way to Vancouver.
Montreal Central Station, modern and practical, doesn't have the charm of stations of old. They should install loudspeakers that would allow passengers to hear the roar of departing locomotives, allow passersby to see the trains as they enter the station; and spy the tearful goodbyes of soon-to-be separated couples.
On this morning of August 31st, I was the first one to arrive, and I was thinking all these things, unaware that nostalgia is a terrible adviser. Denis Bouchard arrived second. I was secretely hoping that he would be able to open his sleepy eyes before we leave: after all, the expedition photographer should have his eyes wide open.
The next person to set foot in the station was Benoît Laporte; the VIA Rail representative and organizer of this expedition looks eager to conquer Northern Quebec. His eyes were wide open: «Have you seen Yanick? he says, nearly panicked. It'd be terrible if he missed the train...»
Yanick Rose, late? Yes, but, afterall, a filmmaker knows the importance of timing. «Hey guys, I'm not late I hope?» says Rose, barely visible behind a mountain of bags overflowing with film equipment, as Benoît Laporte lets out a sigh of relief.
We board the train. No doubt now, this trip is under way. Trains have the unique ability to make you feel like you're going on vacation as soon as you come aboard. We are leaving Montreal behind, as we make our way toward Upper Saint-Maurice, where we will be spending the next two weeks.
Once aboard the train, it doesn't take long for the team to display its spirit as we illegally sneak into the cargo area. In this wood-floored wagon, with both side panels open wide, you feel huge gusts of wind coming from the outside. We carefully stick out our heads, our hair flowing wildly, as we soak up the breathtaking scenery: bridges, rivers, lakes and forests as far as the eye can see; the few farm houses that pepper the landscape being the only civilization that we will encounter for miles to come.
But when Yanick leans dangerously out the door to capture a few images, his body half hanging out as I hold him by the waist, a VIA employee sternly calls us back to order. We apologize.
«So?», I ask Yanick.
«The images are going to be out of this world!» he whispers back.
It's been barely two hours since we've left and, already, the tone is set. The doors stay wide open. The scenery flies by as it only can when viewed from a train. I lie down on my back pack, close my eyes, and think about the people that we're going to meet in a few minutes, and about the jet ski expedition on the Saint-Maurice River that awaits us, as soon as we reach Grande Piles. Time has stopped and the train tirelessly continues on its way.
