2005

Isaiah Sumner yelled in frustration and pain as he tripped suddenly and landed on some rocks. Rubbing his bruised arm, he stood up and scanned the rocky beach. No one had seen his awkward attempt at adjusting to his growing teenage limbs, yet he still felt a twinge of embarrassment. He glanced again at the spot where he’d fallen and was surprised to see a glass bottle. He picked it up and prepared to hurl it back to the sea as revenge for stumbling him. He paused when he saw a crumpled paper inside. Isaiah struggled between curiosity and the desire to appear grown up and discard such notions. But there was nobody on the beach and Isaiah allowed himself a brief lapse into childhood. It was no map, unfortunately, only some lines scrawled in charcoal.

Isaiah Sumner had no idea what this meant, where it came from, or why it was in this malicious bottle. Nevertheless, he continued his original homeward route. The rest of his day was mundane, except for dreaming about wielding a rifle and driving the Yankess back north. He paid no attention in school, preferring to daydream about the war. He returned to the beach that afternoon, and began his usual watch for big Confederate ships. The bottle he’d found had been in his mind occasionally during the day, and he half-consciously added bottles on his list of things to seek.

Despite this, he was quite surprised to find another glass bottle, trapped in a tide pool. Although adult logic told him nothing was inside, he hastened to look. Inside was another crumpled paper! It contained only one sentence.

From his school reading book! Why was this simple childish sentence posted in a bottle? Isaiah glanced at the bottom of the scrap and saw the now-familiar TD. Despite this foolishness, he smiled. This TD was an adventurer, a secret source of communication that maybe only Isaiah knew about! It thrilled him. He stayed twenty more minutes on the beach, in case TD had another important message. Nothing came, however, and he returned home.

The next school day Isaiah found his teacher’s words uninteresting, and could only dream identities for TD in his nervous imagination. Pirate captain, Confederate General, and even President Davis appeared as possibilities. He did notice when they read together the line about Adam’s Fall. Again he rushed to the beach, but now had no interest in ships and every interest in bottles. To his amazement and delight, he found three, each in various spots and all brought in by the tide. He was amused to find the first contained only a drawing, in the same crude charcoal as the rest. It was a drawing of a small fishing boat, and was very well done. There were rocks in the background that clearly resembled the beach he was standing on. Isaiah didn’t have to guess about the signature on this artwork. He dismissed the idea of a pirate captain writing these and uncorked the second bottle. Here was another poem.

This was common arithmetic! Both were on the same paper and were penned by the elusive TD. Isaiah had some trouble carrying three bottles home, and had to explain to his mother he had found them and had not drunk from them. He experienced another fidgety night, but was able to positively conclude that TD was a British diplomat feeding bits of his shipboard library into bottles for sport. The school next day required Isaiah to write poetry. He thought longer than the rest of his class, yet neither he nor his teacher liked the result.

His teacher promptly indicated the meter was wrong, and that he should write about nature or something refined. He was quick to get to the bay that day. Isaiah had spent about an hour searching up and down the shore when he finally spotted that familiar glass container. Inside was another charcoal drawing, only this time it was of a lighthouse, actually the one that stood at the edge of the bay. His lighthouse!

Suddenly, a fantastic notion struck Isaiah. Almost forgetting the bottle, he raced along the shore until he reached a shabby old boathouse. His graying grandfather was repairing a net out front when he found him. The boy stopped breathlessly before him. It was time, he hoped, for one last childish act.

The old Southerner gradually relented. Together they hauled their fishing boat from the shed and pushed it into the water. Isaiah directed the pilot towards the lighthouse, the man saying nothing. The boy jumped into the shallows before the boat hit the sand, and ran to the small red and white lighthouse. A small shack was attached to it, and Isaiah ran up to it and threw open the door. A gasp caught in his throat.

A man’s body lay on the floor, and was covered with blood and obviously not breathing. Isaiah noticed the man was black. He wore common clothes, and had iron shackles on his feet. His leg held what looked like a bullet wound. The boy stood staring for a moment, until he looked up. He was startled again.

The small room was full of bottles! A large chest in the corner held many, and more were littered about. Most already had paper scraps inside. Isaiah noticed that the Negro corpse held crumpled paper. Trying not to look at the body, he pried it from the man’s lifeless hand. He hurried to read.

My life is a puzzle. Born a slave, educated like a free man, beaten like a slave, loved by God as a free man, killed as a slave, dying a free man. Dying in a room full of bottled knowledge. Now I’m free, and I hope you learn from me. Thank you, Lord. I’m coming home.

“TD!” Isaiah looked down at the man who was not a soldier, diplomat, or the president. But he was a man. Isaiah Sumner wanted to cry. But that would be childish, and there was not more room for that. So he flipped the paper, found a broken charcoal, and wrote.

“Ahoy, there! Ahoy, Celia!” called a man’s voice. The hot noonday sun beat down on the small longboat rowing from the white, sandy beaches of the Caribbean towards the frigate, Celia, standing at anchor in the turquoise bay. A team of half a dozen men had gone ashore with Lieutenant Brown to replenish her water supply, while the rest of the crew exercised the guns. Now, the longboat was back. As the crew climbed back on board, Brown made his report to Captain Bowe. Brown saluted.

“We found the stream on the map right away sir; it’s a cool, fresh one. We’ve refilled all the hogsheads right up to the brim.”

“Yes, sir. Allen came upon a lime tree, so we stocked up. And he found a parrot that’s almost dead. He’s brought it for Lee, the ship’s carpenter, to ‘fix ep’, as Allen says.”

“Those limes are good news; our store was low, and we don’t want a core of scurvy patients on our hands, do we?” He chuckled, as if the dreaded disease was a joke.

Brown shuddered at the thought of scurvy. “And the bird, sir?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Almost dead, you say? I don’t think there’s much hope for it. If it lives, it’s no matter to me, as long as it doesn’t cause disorder on the Celia. If it dies, we’ll give it a good Christian burial at sea,” Bowe joked.

Belowdecks, Abijah Lee, known to many as just “Bijah”, was becoming the recipient of a scrawny, half-dead bird dubbed “Sharkey,” a green parrot with a red cap and a blue streak behind each eye. The crew had an almost superstitious belief in Abijah’s powers as a “jack-of-all-trades, master-of-all,” and considered him more skilled than even the ship’s doctor.

“We all knows yer a good fix-epper, Bijah, so’s Oy brung the poor lad in fer yew ta fix. ‘E’s a present fer yew ta keep!” Allen told him, obviously delighted. He handed Sharkey over and left with a smile on his face.

Abijah Lee was a strong man with clever fingers and friendly nature. He was well built, with large muscles and a deep tan, dark hair, and brilliant green eyes. He was by no means an overly-serous sort of person, telling better jokes and stories than anybody on the Celia, and always smiling. Abijah could build almost anything be put his mind to, mend small, delicate things, and make friendships easily. As he viewed the green parrot on his sea chest, he thought that he had a good chance of nursing it back to health. With infinite care, Abijah picked up Sharky and looked him over, seeing one broken wing and a bad case of near-starvation.

Abijah doctored Sharkey every spare moment he had, setting his wing with a splint and feeding him. Bit by bit, day by day, the parrot regained his strength. His beautiful green plumage shone brightly. It wasn’t too long until Sharky was able to fly again, but he spent most of his time perched on his master’s shoulder. The crew loved to teach Sharky new words and phrases and tricks. Their favorite trick was when Sharky fluffed his feathers up and hopped around yelling, “Bijah! Bijah! Bijah!” This was the parrot’s favorite trick, also. The whole crew loved Sharky.

Only one person on the Celia disliked Sharky: Evans, the bosun. He was a small man, but a brute, looking more like a pirate than a sailor in the Royal Navy. He was rough and loud, stomping around on his peg-leg, bellowing orders. He hated Abijah, despite the fact that the skilled carpenter had made Evan’s peg-leg for free. But, above all, he especially hated Sharky.

One day, as Abijah and Sharky were on deck mending a tear in one of the spare pieces of sailcloth, Sharky decided it was time for his favorite trick. “Bijah! Bijah! Bijah!” he shrieked, flapping his wings vigorously, just as Evans was passing by.

“Hey, Lee, you better watch that bird of yours, or you won’t be seeing it any more,” Evans shouted, clearly startled and upset. The onlookers at the scene laughed.

“Sharky ain’t ‘urtin’ yew, is ‘e, Evans? No, ‘e ain’t! So leave offa ‘im,” Allen, who was standing nearby, shot back. Evans took a swipe at Sharky with his ever-present belaying pin, but missed, and the parrot flew undaunted to perch on the ratlines.

“No, ‘e ain’t! No, ‘e ain’t!” Sharky exclaimed, in a perfect imitation of Allen, which made the crew laugh even more. This made Evans furious. He moved to grab Sharky, but the carpenter stepped in front of him.

“Don’t,” he said warningly. There wasn’t anything Evans could do but mutter incoherently and walk on, pretending indifference.

“If there’s one thing I don’t like, besides that stupid bird, it’s being laughed at. But don’t you worry. I’ll get me revenge, so you’d better watch yourself, Lee,” Evans growled to himself as he stormed away. He would never admit it, even to himself, but he was intimidated by Abijah’s size and strength. But he wasn’t too scared of the parrot.

For a few weeks, Evans waited, looking for his opportunity. One day, it came. Abijah was up in the rigging binding a cracked spar; Sharky was napping in the sun on deck. Evans saw the parrot, and kicked him as hard as he could. Sharky was flung a distance, fell, and croaked “Bijah!” Allen, somehow hearing, called Abijah down. Abijah hurried over, scooping Sharky up and carrying him away. It took a week and a half for Sharky to recover completely, but he was a tough little bird, and he pulled through well. He would keep his distance from Evans, though, yelling, “No, ‘e ain’t!” every time he saw Evans. Abijah knew that it was he who had kicked Sharky, but he let it go.

One evening, a ferocious storm blew up. Sharky loved to be outside during storms, holding on tightly to the rigging with his feet. During this blow, he was on deck, watching Abijah work. Only Sharly saw Evan fall overboard. He flew over to the railing, screeching “No, ‘e ain’t!” Evans couldn’t swim two strokes under normal circumstances, and rain, wind, and waves made him panic, and his peg-leg pulled him under. Abijah saw the man floundering in the sea and immediately dove in. He was a powerful swimmer; he reached Evans in no time. Meanwhile, Sharky had attracted the attention of some of the other sailors, who threw a line to the two in the water. Abijah and Evans were hauled on board, taken to the galley, and wrapped in blankets. When he had warmed up a bit, the sailors told Evans about the part Sharky had played in his rescue. He was amazed.

“I would’a died if the stupid bird – I mean Sharky hadn’t saved me. I guess I had no call to kick him. I’m sorry, Lee.”

“Hoist the sails” cried captain Jackson. “Baton down the hatches it was August 8th and a terrible storm had just blown in. “Terr-yble look for ad Hamilton” muttered the cook McLean with his Heavy Scottish accent. Across the rough seas was a fellow schooner the “scourge” that was having a rough time also. Once 2:00 am hit a sudden wind blew in and…

“The rest will be history…. Until next class that is.” “Ahhhh” howled the Class. “I will not say a word, now get ready to go” Ms. Jackson stated as the beloved hobbled away. No one knows how old she is but she just seems she is always there year after year.

The next day school started promptly at 8:00 am. As the children poured through the door into the classroom there was something different. No Ms. Jackson, not anywhere in sight. “Where’s Ms. Jackson” Jimmy asked the substitute teacher. “I’m not sure, I was called in this morning and didn’t get many details,” said the substitute Miss Conan. As Miss Conan walked over to the desk she noticed a note on the toy treasure chest where class materials were held. It read,

As you see I will be absent for some time. Clues will be left to help you discover my past and where I am.

“Students come over here quick, I have something to tell you”. Miss Conan instructed. When Miss Conan read the letter, student’s mouths dropped open. “Wow” said Sandy. “A mystery” “Just like Sherlock Holmes” blurted in Sam. “Now Class, the letter instructed to read the story about the ship so..” before Miss Conan could finish all the kids had made a huge semi circle around her. “Ok where were you… Yes it looks like here.

A sudden wind blew in the “Father” cried a girl about 11. “Below, down below we are flooding”. Captain Jackson turned around to see his daughter wide eyed with fear. “Daughter go down and..” As miss Conan flipped the page a note fell out.

When you sing “the name I call myself” those are the first two letters of my name.

Once again Miss Conan read aloud the letter. At once all the students began to sing and whisper. “Do Re Mi, huh” said Jill after much puzzlement. Then one voice loud and clear began to sing “Doe a deer a Female deer, Ray a drop of golden sun, ME A NAME I CALL MYSELF!! Me, her first name begins with M E” it was Naomi the class Musical. “You’ve done it guys, should I continue to read”? “Yes” cried the class. Back to the book she read

“Daughter go down and get some buckets, start to Bail!” “Yes Father” chirped Melonie, but as she was racing down the stairs she slipped on the steps and landed with a THUMP. “Owwwwwww” Melonie screeched with pain. Her leg in the worst of times had to break now! Now with Melonie at no service to help bail, the storm had to grow worse! Waves burst over the ship and….. It was over, both schooners had crashed now with in the hands of Great lake Ontario. There were no recorded survivors, only the ghost ships to haunt Lake Ontario. These ships wander cold and…. POP another note. This time a word puzzle.

The word that finishes that sentences is the first word of the puzzle. The last is the next part of my name. ALONE – A = LONE – E = LON

“Melon” said Jack “I knew her name was Melon all along” “Not MELON jeez, Melonie, melonie Jack.. Justine gasped. “I thought there were no survivors” “How can anyone live that long?” added Tommy. “Well kids” said Miss Conan with a twinkle in her eye. “I think we have ghost on our hands.” “No” cheered the class. “A ghost SHIP”.

As the storm grew and grew a girl with a lame leg swam to shore. She turned, looked where the beloved Hamilton once owned the lake. A tear ran down her cheek and limped away into the fog.

Crossing Lake Ontario is no enjoyable task. Our ship, the Ontario, is a ship carrying the Paymaster’s chest. Seventy thousand pounds of pure gold sit in the chest, waiting to be paid. We are the King’s own 5th Regiment. The money is for the English officers, patrolling Oswego, unfortunately, the Ontario will never reach Oswego.

The frigid cold and bitter wind howl and bite at my thin wear. Each day proceeds as rapidly as a dead turtle.

There is nothing to do on the decks, but wait to sink. That is the reality, people have not admitted it to their fellow sailors, but each knows it. We have been long lost. Leaving Niagara seems like months ago, when in actuality it has been only a week. In this week I have realized what I have done.

I pushed the captain to leave Niagara before spring; I want to see my family, they have no money and their food supply is running out, just like mine.

This is my fault. Each person on this ship sits in their hammocks each day, rocking back and forth, back and forth, need I say monotony? No one does their job; no one rings the bell to report the time, for what is time to a dead man?

Each day we dump more and more of our supplies into the glacial depths of the lake. The heavy chest is weighing us down. We managed to lift the Paymaster’s chest and drop it into Lake Ontario. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Seventy-five thousand pounds dropped into the depths of a lake. There it has no value. I still know that we are paying our own death bounty. If we were in England we would be rich, living like kings. The money we have wasted, but life is worth it. If only the dropped weight determined whether the Ontario sinks or not. I know that the weight we lost will only delay the sinking. We could sink, we may not, but we will never reach land before our reserves of food and water run out. The thick ice makes it impossible to move more than mere feet a day.

The saying is literal in our dilemma, between a rock and a hard place, if we replace rock with ice, then that is what our ship has become.

Captain Martin has locked himself in his cabin, only emerging to eat and, well, you know.

My senses are jaded. I see only our men swaying their hammocks, shuffling cards, eating. The smell is of flat beer and vomit. The cards shuffling against each other, over and over again, the slow creak of the hammocks’ rocking is all I hear besides the scratch of my quill and whispered conversations. The only thing changing is the food, beer, salted fish, and hard tack. The hard tack moldier, the fish more rotten every day, and the beer flatter and staler every hour.

The constant vomiting is caused by the rotten fish and the inhaling of beer; it is the only thing that keeps us warm. Being confined in the same room for days on end with no room to move has not helped.

“Hello,” he said. Then he moved on. “As you know, we are sinking, the ice build up is…,” he stopped. “You are sailors, not thinkers, you won’t understand, but we will be dead, very soon.” The captain had never been one that thought much of manners. “I am sorry we will never go home…” The captain left us with a nod. He turned and strode out of the room and down the corridor.

We all remained silent for ten minutes, the awkward silence ceased as the cook came into the cabin with our food. He couldn’t have been cooking, the fish was cold. No one complained, what was there to complain about? If you didn’t eat you starved to death, if you did, you sank to your death. Like I wrote in my previous log; between ice and a hard place, it didn’t matter what you chose to do, fate would take its course soon.

If the fact that death would come had not been lingering in our hearts, the day would seem tranquil and beautiful. I climbed the ladder to the deck to… and the sun shone brightly and it reflected off the ice like crystal. It was breath taking, and so is death.

I find myself forcing everything into an analogy that ends with “so is death”, or, “as death”. I walked around the deck. Coming to the starboard, I saw a sight that I did not want to see. A city, Oswego, it was there, just in my sight, just out of my reach. We would never reach it in time. We are stuck in the ice. I estimate that Oswego is three miles from the Mule.

A tease, it was practically dancing, waving its hills and trees in the air for us, ‘catch me if you can.’

Each meal goes down my throat as lump, each sound goes through me. I sit here waiting for death to come, but it does not. It keeps telling us that we are going to die, it persists in sending us messages, but the threats are yet empty. Some people’s hope have once again inflated, they are the ignorant. Death holds our hands, tightly, refusing to let go, soon it will break our hand. Why aren’t we sinking?

I’ve calculated that if our rations remain unchanged, that we will run out of food soon, tomorrow after lunch.

More waiting, just waiting now, ‘tis a matter of time until Saint Peter meets us. Slowly the ice breaks, but it isn’t around us, just around the edges, we are the center.

Now I pray, pray that my wife and daughter do not suffer, that they are helped and that fate is not as cruel to them as it has been to me.

If only heat would come, but that is not possible, even if it was ninety degrees, the ice would not melt before we died or sank.

The door opens. “My fellow sailors, life is ending, it is near. The ice has compacted tightly around the edges, crushed the wood, we are sinking my fellow men. Ask for forgiveness, confess to your sins. Soon death will take you,” Captain Martin spoke. Our faces drained of all color, our hearts drained of all life. Death was taking us at last.

“Beans have to be cooked for 20 minutes, and the bread has to bake for one-half hour,” I sighed remembering what my mother had said. “Don’t burn the beans!” I sighed again. “If only my brother Samuel was here,” I thought.

He would have said, “Jane, you make a better batch of beans than Ma, if you don’t burn them.” I laughed placing a pot on the stove, and then frowned.

“If I want to cook beans, I’m going to have to stoke this fire up. I quickly spun around and strode to the heavy oak door and opened it.

“Brr,” I said as I walked into the frigid night, “I should have put a coat on.” I quickly gathered some wood from the pile that leans against our house, and brought it in. Before I had even put all the wood in the stove, there was a timid knock upon the door. I froze and my mind raced with questions. “If Pa and Ma were back, I surely would have heard the wagon, and they wouldn’t knock. Samuel went down the road to help the neighbors, and it was too late for most people to be visiting. Slave catchers! No, the knock would have most definitely been rougher.”

Very slowly, I unlatched the door and peeped outside. I could no believe my eyes. There stood a tired Negro woman with a very young Negro girl in her arms. Both of them were dressed in thin, worn dresses that seemed too light for the cold night air. Neither had coats, and they shivered slightly.

“Are you the Crocketts?” said the women quietly with a hopeful look in her eyes.

I shook my head. “No, I’m Jane Indall. The Crocketts are our neighbors.” Our neighbors were outspoken abolitionists. The Crocketts were very nice neighbors, but our family never got involved with slavery issues. We thought slavery was wrong, and even knew and liked some of the free slaves like William the blacksmith. But, Ma and Pa were very honest people and would never break laws even if they were bad ones.

“Are you a runaway slave?” I questioned nervously wishing I wasn’t alone. “Because if you are, we don’t hide slaves here.”

The woman slowly nodded her head looking at me with serious eyes. All of a sudden, the child started crying. Without thinking I pulled the two runaways into the house. “What’s wrong with her?” I asked as the woman rocked the girl back and forth. It’s sounds like she’s crying for her Ma.”

“What do you mean?” I asked watching the girl’s cries turn into quiet sobs as she started sucking her thumb.

The woman sighed and said sadly, “Her mama died after we run away. We was crossin a really cold river and her mama kept this child high on her shoulders to keep her dry. It took so long getting cross that river, and she was never a very strong woman. She just got a chill, then a fever, and couldn’t last no more. Before she died, she gave me this sweet child and said “You gots to do this journey by yourself now. I don want my child liven another moment as a slave. God’s gonna protect you to freedom.”

I felt overwhelmed with sorrow, and I realized that the slaves standing in my kitchen were no different from me, Ma and Pa, and even my big brother Samuel. They were real people that were going through very hard things that none of us could possibly handle. I looked at them and felt guilty that I never thought of it before.

Suddenly our conversation was interrupted by the gruff voices of men. The women’s face turned pale with fear.

“Slave catchers,” she whispered faintly. The little girl’s sniffles started to get louder.

My mind was filled with thoughts, but only one stood out to me. “Hide them!” Hide them fast!” My eyes darted around the room looking for somewhere to hide the two slaves. “Under the sink!” I thought running across the wooden plant floor and hastily drawing the curtain away from the sink base.

“There’s no time to talk. Get in,” I interrupted as there was a heavy knock on the door. The woman ran across the room.

Thud, thud. “Let us in, “the slave catchers demanded as the woman with the child still in her arms crouched under the sink with a frantic look on her face. I quickly closed the curtain that covered the sink base.

“We are impatient men. Let us in now,” a slave catcher shouted. I quickly walked across the room praying for help and opened the door. Outside stood seven men in all. Five were standing in a group by the house, and two were tending the horses. All of them had guns.

I suddenly felt a confidence inside me, as if I had dealt with slave catchers many times before. I innocently asked, “What do you want?”

“We’re looking for a slave woman and a little girl. We saw a woman carrying what looked like a little girl enter this house,” gruffly said the man in front.

“What are you talking about?” I asked with surprise. “I was just outside and brought some wood in. Maybe that’s what you saw. I had a big load in my arms.” I opened the door wide, showing them the whole kitchen. Near the stove lay the pile of logs I had just brought in, and the beans sat on the stove waiting to be cooked.

He stared at me for a moment, looked around the room, and shook his head. “No, thanks. We’ve seen enough. But if you do see them, you better let us know. It’s the law.” The men mounted their horses and rode away.

After they were out of sight, I shut the door and ran toward the sink flinging open the curtain around the base finding the two slaves terrified but safe.

“Yes, you can come out,” I said giving her my hand. I was filled with joy and relief because they hadn’t been caught.

“Thank you so much,” the woman wept with joy “You saved us!” I suddenly surprised myself by feeling warm tears trickle down my face.

“Please stay. I’m sure Ma and Pa will feel the same way after they hear your story. Please, sit down. Tell me your names. Le me get you some food. You can’t leave now,” I said not regretting one word. So much had changed in so little time. Only twenty minutes ago my biggest fear was burning the beans for tonight’s dinner, and now my biggest wish was to help these runaways find their way to freedom.

I wanted to learn about Native American canoes because my father made a really beautiful canoe using cedar wood strips. I also really enjoy canoeing on Lake Ontario with my family in the summer and it is interesting to learn more about how the canoe was developed and came to be what it is today.

Most Native American canoes were covered with birch bark. Canoes were able to move very easily in fast moving waters. Some of the first canoes were tree trunks hallowed out in the middle to make a canoe as the final product. As time passed the Native American canoe become much easier to use in the water. A new style of canoe was made out of a tough, light wooden frame with the outside make of bark, usually birch bark. The Native Americans made an even lighter canoe by covering a frame of wooden ribs with the bark of a tree. The Native Americans usually used birch-bark because it was the lightest and the most practical to use in the water. Today, canoes are made a lot like the old Native American birch-bark canoes. Most canoes are made of aluminum or fiberglass now, but canoe makers still make canoes almost the same size and shape that the Native Americans made them centuries ago. Canoes were completely biodegradable therefore there aren’t a lot of records about the Native American canoe.

It was very interesting to learn that the canoe at the H. Lee White Marine Museum was discovered at the bottom of a pond and the people who discovered it donated it to the Museum so more people would be able to see what a real Native American canoe looked like many years ago. The Native Americans would sink their canoes during the winter months so they would not expand and contract causing them to become damaged. Apparently whoever sunk this canoe in the fall or early winter never returned to claim it in the spring.

I had the opportunity to watch a Native American actually work on a canoe last year at the New York State Fair. He talked to my little sister and me about how the pieces of bark used to be sewn in sections and placed around the outside of the canoe using spruce gum. He was a very interesting man. I enjoyed seeing the difference between the way my dad made our canoe and the way the Native American made his canoe. My dad used a lot of modern tools and equipment and materials bought from a store, but the Native American used old fashioned tools and products from nature to make his canoe. I am hopeful more people will discover what a fun activity going in a canoe can be because it doesn’t pollute our environment and people can get exercise while they are having a good time too.