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Always Further: Following in the Footsteps of La Salle
Lorraine Boissoneault
Undergraduate Honors Thesis, Spring 2012
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Introduction
Kingston, Ontario is not immediately recognizable to most of the people I’ve talked to
about my trip there. Despite being the oldest city in Ontario and home to Canada’s first Prime
Minister, Sir John Mcdonald, Kingston is trapped between Toronto and Montreal – making it
more of a convenient rest stop than a dream destination. Among its other claims to fame,
Kingston is a major venue for freshwater sailing, the birthplace of 1000 Islands dressing, and
holds Canada’s only military college (yes, Canada has more than just the Mounties).
My interest in Kingston does not stem from the reputation of its famed salad dressing or
the beauty of the locale, but the history that imbues its geographical location. Nearly 400 years
ago the city of Kingston did not exist. French explorer Rene-Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle
traveled to the area and oversaw the construction of Fort Frontenac, one of the westernmost trade
posts of the French colonists. He set off by canoe from this location on a number of arduous
voyages. It was not until the early 1800s that ships would have a stronger presence in the Great
Lakes, and by that point La Salle’s legacy and the French presence in the Americas was on the
decline.
I try to imagine what he would have seen as I drive across the edge of Canada, just north
of the Lakes Erie and Ontario. La Salle traveled mostly by water, so his view of the landscapes
varied from my own; he may not have seen the landmarks that now belong to Canada because
they were too far away. In modern times the terrain in southern Canada is subtly different than
that of northern Ohio: the forests of Ontario are less affected by agriculture, and the trees (ash,
maple, Jack Pine, Balsam fir) seem wilder and more ancient. I can’t begin to picture what it must
have looked like to see nothing but impenetrable thickets of green and brown for hundreds of
miles. No farms. No highway. No rest stops.
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The features that do resonate with me are the lakes. I feel them as I drive along Highway
401, a slight tug on my right shoulder, to the south. They exert a strange magnetism and each
time I crest a hill and am able to see beyond the farmhouses and small towns to the icy shores it
feels like a victory. My extended view of Lake Ontario with the setting sun at my back,
illuminating strips of waves, is particularly satisfying. By this point I’ve passed the horrendous
traffic in Toronto (busiest section of highway in all of North America) and reached the Highway
of Heroes. It’s seven hours into my drive and I should be paying more attention to the road and
less to the immovable body of water just a mile from me. But there’s such a strong attraction to
the water I can’t help glimpsing over my shoulder every few minutes, just to make sure it’s still
there.
When I began my research I wanted to understand historical and contemporary
perceptions of exploration – La Salle seemed the embodiment of historical explorers. But the
more I learned about his voyages and the modern explorers who have attempted the emulate him,
the more the project turned into a meditation on the nature of history and our fondness for
reinterpreting and reconstructing the past. I did not choose La Salle as my subject because I
admired him more than others, but because I discovered a number of people still actively
engaged in his legacy today. La Salle brought me a connection to history, but more importantly,
his name led me to three modern men who have spent their lives attempting to reconnect with his
particular history.
It would not be a stretch to say that Reid Lewis, Rich Gross, and Steve Libert are
obsessed with the past. Lewis spent hundreds of thousands of dollars and three years of his life
training for and reenacting La Salle’s journey – by canoe – from Montreal to the Gulf of Mexico.
Rich Gross, who participated in Lewis’ recreation as a teenager, read thousands of pages of
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documents in an attempt to unravel the mysteries of La Salle’s life. Steve Libert devoted all his
excess energy and vacation hours to a methodical search for the Griffon, La Salle’s lost ship that
sank in the Great Lakes. Although each man has a life and family outside this unusual pursuit, a
passion for all things La Salle is what drives them.
I think of this wild obsession as I approach Kingston, knowing that there is nothing in my
own life that I have been so compelled by. For months I have attempted to fathom the energy
such devotion would require. The task is impossible. What I can fathom is why these three men
became aficionados of La Salle, and why history appealed to them in the first place. Our history
is the blueprint of our present, affecting politics, culture, daily life. But more than that, history
can be a way of escaping the present; for each of these men it became a vehicle to engage with a
simpler reality than our own, as complicated by globalization and high-speed Internet as it is.
History teaches us about our origins, but it also teaches us to respect the power of choices,
because we cannot return to or undo the past.
Snow begins to fall as I drive through the fields surrounding Kingston. It’s barely 8pm,
but most of the streets are empty. I try to picture entering a city that hasn’t been built yet, visiting
territory that’s little more than a remote French trading post. The neon signs for Chinese food
and different hotels are distracting and persistent, as are the stoplights. But at the edge of Lake
Ontario, where La Salle constructed his first fort, I think I might experience a momentary
epiphany of the variety, if not the magnitude, of those that Reid, Rich, and Steve have all
experienced. I am in the right location, with the right mindset. History is waiting for me to catch
it – and hopefully when I do, it will answer a few of my questions about the present world.
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La Salle and La Nouvelle France
Born in 1643 to a wealthy merchant family in Rouen, Normandy, Rene-Robert Cavelier,
Sieur de La Salle spent the first twenty years of his life studying to become a member of the
Jesuits. After taking minor religious orders he studied physics and mathematics, later teaching
the same subjects. Ever the nonconformist, La Salle struggled under the stifling discipline of the
Jesuits and left the Order in January 1667. Having abandoned all claims to his inheritance when
he took his vows, La Salle turned to the distant shores of North America as a way to make his
fortune.
In 1667 the Crown had controlled New France for a mere four years; prior to that point
the king allowed a company of private investors, La Compagnie des Cent Associés, to invest in
and profit from trade. They’d made little headway in penetrating the interior of the continent,
contenting themselves with acquiring furs and trading them with Native Americans or sending
them back to Europe. King Louis XIV was not satisfied with the progress of the tiny colony;
pressure from the expanding British and the plentiful wealth plundered from South America by
the Spanish and Portuguese necessitated an increase in effort. When La Salle arrived in Quebec
at the age of 23, he was among the vanguard in a new age of French expansionism.
La Salle embarked on his first voyage down the Ohio River several years after his arrival
in Montreal. During the voyage he cultivated his language skills with various Indian tribes and
gained the attention of the Governor of New France, Count Frontenac. Upon hearing of La
Salle’s natural aptitude for languages, Frontenac asked him to act as translator and advisor on a
diplomatic mission to the easternmost tip of what is now Lake Ontario. The mission was
intended to seal diplomatic ties with Native American tribes of the region, and included the
construction of a small wooden fort, Fort Frontenac.
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Shortly after being named seigneur (a landed lord) of Fort Frontenac, La Salle returned to
France for a political visit. His goal was to secure the approval of King Louis and his Minister of
Finances, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, for an exploration of the Mississippi. The King and Colbert
agreed, with several stipulations: La Salle would attempt to further relationships with tribes of
the region; he would build forts to increase the fur trade; and he would attempt to find a warm
water port at the end of the Mississippi. All three objectives were important methods of securing
French interests in the Western hemisphere and staving off the encroaching British.
La Salle spent months organizing his 1679 voyage. Exploration in New France was a
surprisingly difficult venture, limited to those who had money and connections. La Salle, never
adept at accounting, struggled to finance his expedition. It didn’t help that the currency flew
from the colonies back to France in such great quantities that at different points settlers were
required to use beaver skins, moose hides, and even playing cards with their corners cut off to
replace the disappearing livre.
Ever the optimist, La Salle forged ahead with his plan despite issues with creditors. He
sent one small group to the Illinois Indians’ territory (modern-day Illinois) so that they could
begin making preparations for La Salle’s arrival. Under the command of La Salle’s closest
associate, Henri de Tonty, a second detachment of men stayed just outside Niagara to build a
ship that could transport furs and other goods more easily than canoes. The construction of the
ship proved problematic. Supplies were lost when several canoes capsized, and the Iroquois
“took offence at the barque he was having built.” It was rumored they planned to set the
unfinished ship on fire. A diligent guard was set to prevent the ship from coming to any harm,
and the builders redoubled their efforts, finishing the boat in a month and a half. Having already
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sent a small fleet of men ahead to begin preparations, La Salle was confident of success when he
set out for Michilimackinac, the best fortified and westernmost French fort.
La Salle’s goal at this point of the expedition was to bring his ship, le Griffon, all the way
around Michigan, collect furs, send the ship back to Niagara for more supplies and to unload the
furs, then use the supplies the ship would bring on its return voyage to construct a second ship on
the Illinois River. The second ship would carry La Salle and his men down the Mississippi to the
Gulf of Mexico, making their transportation less difficult and allowing them to carry several tons
of furs and supplies. From the moment le Griffon first hit land at the northern tip of Michigan,
however, La Salle’s plans went awry.
Many of the men who’d been sent ahead had deserted and stolen 4,000 livres worth of
goods. The motivation for their theft and desertion was the fear that La Salle’s enterprise would
be unsuccessful, a common litany among other frontiersmen and even certain Indian tribes.
Forced to continue with a depleted crew, La Salle sent the Griffon back to Niagara and continued
his journey on foot.
After weeks of walking through blizzards and fording frozen rivers, La Salle and his men
came upon a large Illinois village, where they were given shelter and offered advice about the
best way to proceed. Unfortunately, a visiting Miami chief named Monso came to visit the
Illinois and secretly told them La Salle was allied with their enemies, the Iroquois. Though La
Salle was able to assuage the Illinois’ fears, two men who understood the communication
between La Salle, Monso, and the Illinois were terrified by Monso’s stories about the dangers of
the Mississippi. That night six more men deserted, including the only two familiar with
shipbuilding.
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The construction of a large ship remained vitally important in La Salle’s mind, but would
ultimately be an unfulfilled desire. Although he did not learn of it till much later, the Griffon
disappeared on its return voyage to Niagara in 1679. Native Americans who witnessed the ship’s
departure claimed a storm destroyed the vessel and caused its sinking. Others speculated that the
ship was abandoned. Even today historians argue about the cause and location of the wreck.
Stranded in Illinois territory, La Salle constructed Fort Crevecoeur as a base for his men
and waited for the Griffon’s return. After several months without news of the ship, he reluctantly
set out for Fort Frontenac with six other men and two Indians, armed only with “a blanket, linen,
a pot, a hatchet, a gun, powder, and lead, and some dressed skins for making Indian shoes, which
last only one day, the shoes [worn] in France being of no use in that country.” La Salle left Tonty
in charge of Fort Crevecoeur until his return, praying the trip would be quickly concluded.
The Frenchmen who remained at Fort Crevecoeur fell into disorder without delay. While
Tonty and several others were investigating a nearby promontory for habitation, those at the fort
took the opportunity to escape. They stole all the valuable supplies and headed east to Quebec.
When Tonty returned he found a simple note signed by all the deserters that read “Nous sommes
tous des sauvages” – we are all savages. Although La Salle later intercepted and overpowered
the deserters, and many were sent to prison, the result of the desertion was that Tonty and La
Salle were separated for more than year.
For the greater portion of 1680 and 1681, both Tonty and La Salle were embroiled in
various battles between Indian nations. It was not until the summer of 1681 that La Salle and
Tonty were reunited. Still eager to continue down the Mississippi, La Salle determined to
postpone the departure till some of his financial affairs were set in order. At that point the only
collateral he could offer for further loans was his life; he made out a will to one of his cousins in
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order to secure the funds. In the fall of 1681, accompanied by 23 men and a number of Indians
and their wives, La Salle reached Michilimackinac once more and began the laborious process of
moving south over the rivers of the American frontier.
Their progress was somewhat hindered by the elements, the cold frequently forcing them
to push the canoes on sleds rather than over water. Even when they reached the conjunction of
the Mississippi and Illinois Rivers, the great body of water was filled with ice floes, forcing the
men to stop for several days. Undeterred, La Salle directed them in the downward trek, the
weather growing balmier as their canoes reached new latitudes. Although they encountered some
hostility from Native American tribes, their party was large and well enough armed to make
them too risky a target for attacking. On April 9, 1682, La Salle and his men stood on the shores
of a piece of land that would much later be called Louisiana – a name derived from La Salle’s
expedition and his claiming of the territory for King Louis. Jacques de la Metairie, the notary
from Fort Frontenac, recorded the conquest and produced the official documents that would be
sent to King Louis XIV. Although France never truly understood the scope of her claim to the
New World, the territory would still be important for the development of a young country in the
coming years – the United States of America.
La Salle’s exploration of the Mississippi set his achievements high above those of any
other Frenchman in North America, but the luck he had before his 1682 accomplishment quickly
ran out. La Salle’s subsequent pursuits, concluding with his return to the Gulf of Mexico in 1684,
proved as disastrous as his first venture along the Mississippi River was successful.
The 1682 return voyage from the Gulf of Mexico was a struggle. The men paddled
against the current, were attacked by various tribes, and found little sustenance besides the tough
meat of alligators. La Salle himself became sick enough to order his men continue without him
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and spent the summer recovering in a shack in the Chickasaw Bluffs. By the time he reached
Illinois territory and rejoined Tonty and the other men, La Salle was caught between the fierce
battles of the Iroquois and the Illinois. He decided to postpone a return to Montreal.
The battles of that period were later known as the Beaver Wars, or the French and
Iroquois Wars. The fighting occurred between members of the Iroquois Confederacy (who had
come to rely on hunting and fur trade with Europeans for their livelihood) and the Algonquianspeaking tribes of the Great Lakes (including the Illinois, the Miami, and others). They resulted
from the Iroquois’ desire to increase their territory after hunting beavers nearly to extinction in
their native Hudson Valley, and were exacerbated by French and British involvement.
Conscious of the dangers presented by the warring Iroquois, La Salle ordered a fort to be
constructed on a butte known as le rocher. It was surrounded on two sides by ravines and on the
third by the Illinois River. Dubbed Fort Saint Louis des Illinois, the fort housed a number of
French during the winter of 1682-83, and became the home of more than 20,000 Indians of
various tribes. The town grew to be a great trading hub, fulfilling La Salle’s dreams of
establishing a legitimate French outpost in Illinois territory. Unfortunately La Salle himself was
required to leave the fort in the summer of 1683 to confront troubles that had been brewing in
Montreal.
The main architect of La Salle’s post-Mississippi exploration difficulties was Le Fèvre de
la Barre, a naval officer who replaced Frontenac as the governor of New France. The first
incident with La Barre occurred in 1682, when La Salle sent men to Montreal for supplies to
sustain Fort Saint Louis over the winter. The men were all detained by La Barre, who ignored La
Salle’s letters that stated the urgent necessity of supplies. Shortly thereafter La Barre seized Fort
Frontenac, stating the fort was not adequately garrisoned, to which La Salle was forced to
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respond in person. He left Tonty in charge of Fort St. Louis in August 1683, not knowing it
would be the last time they saw each other. When he arrived at Montreal, La Salle realized he
would need to muster more powerful support before he could continue his work in North
America. La Salle returned directly to La Rochelle, France during the winter of 1683-84.
La Salle assembled the support of a large number of people in court and by April 1684
received permission from the king to lead an expedition of soldiers and settlers to the Gulf of
Mexico, where another settlement would be established at the mouth of the Mississippi. La
Salle’s group would then meet with the men of Fort St. Louis in Illinois, securing France’s place
in North America and providing them with a year-round warm water port – an invaluable
geographical tool of conquest.
The expedition left France July 24, 1684, comprised of one hundred soldiers, thirty
volunteers (including women and children) and five Recollet priests. The division of command
between La Salle and the naval commander, Monsieur de Beaujeu, was strained and caused more
problems as they approached the southern coast of North America. Neither was certain of the
location of the Mississippi, and when they finally landed in March 1685 they had unwittingly
placed themselves 400 miles from the river, at present-day Matagorda Bay, Texas.
Undiscouraged by his turn in fortune, La Salle constructed a fort at their location and
attempted to promote the prosperity of his small group while waiting for supplies from the north.
After two desperate years struggling against disease, hostile Native American tribes, and the
variety of dangerous creatures that populate the south (most notably rattlesnakes), La Salle
decided to send a group of men in search of the Mississippi. The mission was unsuccessful, and
half the men sent in search of the great river perished. Determined to remedy the situation, La
Salle led his own expedition, leaving a small group of men behind to protect the surviving
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women and children. He headed in a northeastern direction for several months, a route that
would have eventually taken him to the Mississippi.
But on March 19, 1687, La Salle was shot and killed by the surgeon in the group. The
surgeon and his supporters killed several more men remaining loyal to La Salle, then continued
their strenuous journey towards, and eventually up, the Mississippi, finding salvation in late July
when they were discovered by Tonty and his men. Few settlers besides the mutineers survived;
the adults remaining at the fort in Matagorda were killed by Native Americans and the children
were taken captive.
La Salle died at the age of 43 in the wilderness of North America; although his remains
were never uncovered, his legacy has enthralled historians for hundreds of years. Of all the
French to populate the North American continent, he was one of the most well-versed in Native
languages, crossed enormous distances, and left behind one of the largest collections of letters
and books documenting his travels. Despite the physical artifacts preserved for posterity, La
Salle’s story continues to be the subject of debate. His legacy combines immense achievements,
unresolved mysteries, and abundant written documents, making him a favorite for historical
reinterpretation and recreation.
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Reid Lewis: A Living La Salle
Reid Lewis’ beautiful brick house rests at the center of a large yard in the quintessential
Midwestern city of Elgin. Although Elgin is overshadowed by nearby Chicago, it embraces its
identity and proclaims to all incoming motorists that this particular location is “Where history
and progress meet.” Reid’s home is one of the historic houses, old enough that he received funds
from the city to refurbish the interior with original light fixtures and other antique accent pieces.
Historical preservation is one of Reid’s specialties, whether it’s his home or an entire era of
history.
When we met in December, Reid was dividing his days between work in his office and a
physical therapy center to recover from surgery on his rotator cuff (an injury from the repetitive
motion of paddling a canoe). Reid reminds me of my own grandfather – shorter, a bit more white
hair, a slower walking pace. But they share the same energy and enthusiastic desire to share life
experiences, all life experiences. And with someone like Reid, who recently celebrated his 71st
birthday, there’s a lot to share.
It would be easy to plunge immediately into the story of Reid’s reenactment, titled the La
Salle Expedition II. But his personal story starts much earlier, with a black stallion in a red velvet
bridle, the white star on its forehead glistening beneath the Missouri sun. A horse auction, one of
the earliest vacations Reid embarked on with his family.
“I was blessed to have parents who had a spurt of adventure,” Reid said. “When we took
a trip it was a surprise where we were going for my brother and me, who’s two and a half years
older. We shunned all the major roads – my father called it ‘shun-piking.’”
A child in the forties and fifties, Reid experienced the economic boom that came with
the end of World War II. His middle-class family lived a comfortable lifestyle, which included
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numerous enterprising vacations. Another trip Reid remembers as vividly as the horse auction
began with a drive through Washington, D.C. As they passed an airport, Lewis’ father
commented that his sons had never seen the inside of an airplane.
“Back in those days you could get on an airplane and say goodbye to somebody,” Reid
remembered. “So we got on and tried the seatbelts on – at that point cars didn’t have seatbelts –
and the captain came on and said, ‘Everyone not on this flight please get off.’ But my dad looked
at us and just said, ‘It’s too late now, just stay on.’ And we took off and went to Cuba. I found
out later he actually had tickets for it all along.”
Adaptability was their catchword, and one of his father’s favorite phrases was always,
“You gotta roll with the punches.” Reid realized later in life that it was a combination of the freespirited trips, the independence allowed both him and his brother by their parents, and his close
connection to French heritage in the Midwest that led to the La Salle Expedition II.
Skip ahead to the more recent past. It was the autumn of 1973 and Reid had recently
finished a 3,000-mile reenactment voyage of Joliet and Marquette’s journey (two explorers who
cleared the path for La Salle shortly before his explorations of the Mississippi River). He was
returning to the high school where he taught French, reflecting on his experiences as a modern
explorer, convinced that there was some way to take reenacting one step further.
Having put his first few trial-and-error years of teaching behind him, Reid was familiar
with the whims of teenagers. Few had heard of the French voyageurs; fewer still were familiar
with the details of their arrival in North America and the impact they had on the future of the
region. It’s little surprise that citizens of the Midwest never stop to ponder their French roots (or
lack thereof); when questions of ancestry do arise it’s assumed the majority are mutts, blends of
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British, German, Irish and Nordic ancestors. While the demographics of the population have
changed with the years, the first source of European heritage that comes to mind is not France.
In an attempt to elucidate his students and draw attention to this void in their knowledge
of pre-America American history, Reid began teaching them French voyageur songs. The
voyageurs who provided the strength for such famous expeditions as La Salle’s trip down the
Mississippi sang the tunes as they paddled, using the rhythm to keep time and distract themselves
from the monotony of physical labor. Reid used the songs as classroom contests, and also
recruited his students to participate in historic reenactments. He instructed them in the sewing of
their own costumes, prepared the chansons de voyageurs to sing for an audience of strangers,
and convinced the parents to allow their children to leave for a few days and go on an adventure
down the river, à la Huckleberry Finn.
One such trip was to Fort de Chartres for the Feast of the Hunter’s Moon. Reid located
several canoes that could hold eighteen students each and convinced fellow teachers to trailer the
boats and chaperone the students. Shipped off in a bus and leaving behind wary parents, they
spent the first night camped near the river, twenty miles from the fort. As the sun broke through
the foliage the next morning each student tugged on his or her period clothing and found places
in a canoe, heady with draughts of fresh air and the excitement of their imminent performance.
Although some tired quickly, unaccustomed to the work of paddling a canoe, they persevered –
singing, laughing, competing with each other to see which canoe would arrive first. The reaction
such energetic performances elicit from audiences and participants is one of the main reasons
Reid believes in reenactment. It’s more than dressing up and putting on a show; historical
reenactments are a way to reach through the void and commune with the past.
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Based on his experiences leading students in their own reenactments, a nine-month
journey across more than 3,000 miles seemed feasible, if demanding. The expedition, however,
was not intended for “indulging ourselves,” as Reid puts it. He had very specific goals in mind
from the outset of the planning phase, which included promoting the French history of the
Midwest, educating people on the dangers of environmental degradation, accumulating teaching
materials, and proving that “the youth of today” (who now look to my generation as “the youth
of today”) were capable of success.
Reid was convinced he could pull off the voyage. Others were not as certain. But he
refused to let cynics deter his enthusiasm. Once the spark caught, it was impossible to quell the
inferno. And his enthusiasm did eventually spread beyond fellow teachers and family members.
Among those who endorsed his voyage are President Carter, Jacques and Philippe Cousteau,
Marcel Marceau (a famous French mime), Grace Lee Nute (writer and historian), and Sir
Edmund Hillary. These figures, however, would not have considered signing their names to such
an expedition if not for the rigor of the 2-year long preparations.
From the earliest stages in his preparations, transforming the expedition into reality
necessitated flexibility, as well as acting on a number of fronts all at once. There were different
religious orders to consult about casting the role of Père Membré, the Recollet priest who
participated in the original voyage; grants to apply for and organizations to contact for financial
support; costumes to create, canoes to construct, muskets to build from scratch; and of course,
students to recruit for the voyage.
Reid gave a presentation in each of the two Elgin high schools and was rewarded with 60
students (all young men since they original voyage had no women) signing up. Only 17 would be
chosen at the end of a two-year training period.
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Trying out for the La Salle Expedition II meant the students relinquished their claims to
social lives; it meant facing 3:1 odds against them being chosen; it meant training, training,
training, for half their high school careers. The teenagers were put through a variety of
evaluations that tested, among other things, their interpersonal proficiency, their ability to
cooperate, their temperament, their skills and knowledge, their physical endurance, their ability
to paddle canoes for 14 hours a day, their fortitude, their patience.
In one exercise, adult members of the expedition pretended to be a panel of journalists
and grilled students on their daily activities, inserting difficult questions such as, “Is that
marijuana you’re smoking in your pipe?” From there they would gauge the students’ response to
see how levelheaded they would remain under pressure.
Upon reflection, Reid said, “We didn’t want to hurt anyone (by cutting them from the
expedition), because they had to go through two years of preparation and give up everything
else.” But certain behavior would have been unacceptable in the life and death situations the
crew would face during the trip. They had to be prepared to be constantly in the public eye; by
the end of their voyage they’d performed more than 500 presentations for students and citizens
as they followed their route. It was going to be a perilous, stressful, and exhausting voyage, and
those who were underprepared in any way would be in danger, the blame for which would then
fall to Reid.
At one point Reid received a call from a man in Connecticut who’d read about the
expedition and wanted to offer his skills. He flew to Chicago, where he was interviewed and
tested by the rest of the adult team members and gained their approval. Shortly thereafter he
permanently relocated to the city and began working full time with the expedition. In the
beginning the young man appeared energetic and helpful, but after several months it became
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clear that he was trying to undermine Reid’s authority with the students. When the misbehavior
persisted, Reid asked one of the other adults to accompany him to the man’s apartment.
“I’d like you to resign from the expedition, because this isn’t working out,” Reid told
him. The young man refused to resign, and when told he was being fired became violent and
attacked Reid. A third man present pulled them apart, but enraged at his abrupt dismissal, the
volunteer from Connecticut ran to his desk drawer and pulled out a gun.
“At this point I’m thinking, haven’t I read about this before? Because La Salle was shot
by his own men. Not on the expedition we reenacted but on the next one,” Reid recalled. They
finally managed to wrestle the gun out of the man’s hands and called the police. Had he not
followed his instinct, Reid and his crew could’ve faced much more disastrous outcomes during
the expedition.
The preparation and precautions proved to be well worth the time, as the winter of 19761977 was one of the coldest on record for the Midwest. On numerous occasions Reid and his 23person crew were prevented from canoeing because large stretches of water were frozen. On
southern Lake Michigan the ice sometimes rose twelve feet high. Faced with such impossible
conditions, the crew debated their next steps, usually deciding to leave the canoes behind (the
liaison team would pick them up and bring them to the men when they reached open water) and
walk. This process continued for days. They would arrive at open water in the evening,
exhausted and freezing, only to awake the next morning to find the water frozen solid. They
walked over 500 miles of frozen terrain, and when they could paddle the water was glacial.
“So often the old ways were the best ways when it came to the cold,” Reid said, referring
to the research they’d done on the French colonial period before departing. “We were worried
about our hands freezing since there was usually ice on the water… The voyageurs would wear
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two pairs of hand-knitted wool mittens and very quickly dip the back of the mitten into the water
then pull it out. It would freeze and then over the course of the day the ice would pile up over
your hand like a boxing glove and inside the second mitten it kept us perfectly warm and dry
because of the wicking action of the wool.”
When they could no longer face the bitter cold and biting winds, the members of the La
Salle Expedition II took advantage of the hospitality offered by those in their path, much like the
original voyageurs did with Native American tribes.
“By and large people just broke off at the ankles to accommodate us,” Reid said, though
sometimes it required negotiations on the part of his wife Janine and other members of the
liaison team. Updated on the expedition’s progress by their local newspapers, people in each city
or town came to the crew’s campsite and offered them food and drinks (“at the end we could’ve
opened up a liquor store; you shouldn’t drink alcohol in the cold – it opens up the capillaries and
you get colder” Reid said). Towns held banquets in honor of the expedition, occasionally going
so far as to prepare ‘authentic’ meals of venison and raccoon.
“At one point when we were still far north, walking around all the ice, a fellow came
down to the campsite and said, ‘I’d like to invite you to my winery to have a nice dinner, but not
with the public, so you guys can just relax.’ It was a relief. We were working out all day and then
for the town it was show time (when we arrived). So we went to his place and he had us for this
feast,” said Reid. On another occasion, in celebration of Christmas Eve, the people of Bridgman,
Michigan decorated a Christmas tree in the middle of the expedition’s campsite while the crew
were out performing a midnight mass in South Bend, Indiana. They also left a message saying
every crew member could call home for the holidays free of charge.
20
“This was constant,” Rich said. “The expedition was like a thread linking together
everything from Montreal, Canada down to the Gulf of Mexico. It showed the commonality, the
oneness in our history between these communities.”
But that same history also led to expansion and industrialization – activities accompanied
by environmental pollution and large populations. Members of the La Salle Expedition II had to
contend with a number of challenges similar to those faced by their earlier counterparts (weather,
the strain and traveling by foot or canoe), but other difficulties they confronted were products of
the twentieth century. High levels of pollution were one of the most persistent of these modern
problems. Although they experienced a pristine environment in the parts of Georgian Bay,
northeast of Lake Huron in Canada, the crew were well aware of the effects of sewage and other
runoff contaminating water that was once potable. Reid was often shocked at what he saw.
“When we did our survival training they told use we should never drink melted snow – which
we’d been doing – because it’s a scrubber for the air as it falls and is full of toxins,” he said.
The danger of development became more immediate when they came to the Mississippi
River, halfway into their voyage. The traffic was always heavy, with enormous barges heaving
through the waters, hulls large enough that it took them miles to make any maneuver. Reid
remembers one barge captain who noticed the minuscule fleet of canoes and called out on a loud
speaker, “I bet La Salle never saw nothing like this before!” Although those in the Coast Guard
warned them of the hazardous conditions they could expect, Reid and the others never felt they
were taking too many risks. The barge captains communicated with each other about the
expedition’s schedule, previewing one another about the canoes’ progress. In fact, Reid said, “I
really felt I’d rather be on the Mississippi in a canoe than in a powerboat because you have a
very good sense of communication with the forces of nature. You feel everything, whereas in a
21
powerboat you’re kind of just running roughshod and you may be getting in trouble. If your
motor quits, you’re helpless.”
The most disastrous aspect of the voyage did not occur on water, but on land. On January
12 a semi-trailer rig slid out of control and knocked over several of the crew, who were walking
alongside the plowed road after being unable to pull their canoes over the snow and ice near the
river. Gary Braun, a student from Bartlett, Illinois, was only superficially injured and released by
the hospital after short treatment. Steve Marr and Clif Wilson, two more students, both sustained
broken bones and abrasions and were kept in the hospital for continuing treatment. Jorge Garcia,
a fourth student from Streamwood, Illinois, was the most seriously wounded and was in critical
condition after being rushed to the hospital. He suffered internal bleeding and underwent surgery
to remove his ruptured spleen. Halting their progress for the first time since the beginning of the
voyage, the crew stayed at the hospital with their injured companions for two days, anxiously
waiting for Garcia’s condition to improve before they even considered planning the next steps.
When it was clear that all three students would recover from their injuries, they held a
conference and discussed what to do next. The injured voyageurs were adamant that the rest of
the expedition should continue without them. Garcia, Marr, and Clif vowed they would make it
to Louisiana to greet the victorious expedition, even if it meant coming with the aid of slings and
crutches.
For Reid, those two nights were the most trying of the entire nine-month voyage. They
had done everything to prepare for the fatigue, both physical and mental, to train for personal
conflict, to withstand the harshness of nature. Yet the beast that brought them down was a motor
vehicle, something unimaginable to La Salle and his contemporaries. Although they had long
been aware that it was impossible to perfectly recreate the seventeenth century conditions of La
22
Salle’s adventure – time has an uncanny way of marching forward and pulling everything with it
– they had also done their best to imitate as many aspects of that original voyage as they could.
The magic came from that aspect of the expedition, the costumes, the old songs, the ‘living
history.’ But time creates a great divide between past and present, and disaster often awaits even
those who have the best intentions in overlooking of this essential component of human
existence.
Numerous photos remain from the conclusion of the voyage, taken by photographers who
were present for that triumphant moment. In one photo, the group of men stand motionless on the
hot sands stretching along the shore of the Gulf of Mexico. Many rest upright without shirts,
their breeches coming down below the knee, hair shaggy, faces covered in thick beards, skin
tanned from the heavy southern sun. Several bear signs of injuries: crutches and bandaged legs,
another’s arm bound in a sling. They stand around a tall driftwood cross, watching a man dressed
in the more formal attire of a priest. At the head of their line stands Reid, not wearing his
habitual red coat with its gold buttons and embroidered cuffs. He instead wears a simple white
chemise and a black plumed hat – the obvious leader of the group. This photo captures the
moment of Father Loran Fuchs’ prayer, a recreation of the precise event that occurred in La
Salle’s time. At the conclusion of the Te Deum, the men let out whooping cheers, shot off their
muskets, and Reid claimed this land for King Louis XIV. Again.
23
Rich Gross: One True History?
For someone who didn’t develop a taste for history until he participated in a recreation
voyage during his late teen years, Rich is passionate in his discussion of the subject. During our
first meeting he talked incessantly, using both hands in wide gestures, extending his arms out as
if to encapsulate the whole of mankind’s progress. Even his walk, slightly hampered by a
recently broken toe, mimicked the momentum of a spring coiling and uncoiling itself. As we sat
at the table he would pull his glasses down from his nose and lean in closer as he approached the
culmination of each story, hoping I’d find the conclusion at the same time as he revealed it.
Rich Gross was one of more than sixty boys who, after sitting in an auditorium to listen
to a speech that the French teacher Mr. Lewis gave, decided to sign on for the chance to be part
of the 1976-77 La Salle Expedition II. As the details of the voyage solidified, Rich knew what
many of his peers knew: he would be on that trip no matter how hard he had to work for the next
two years. If it meant mastering a foreign language, taking part in psychological examinations,
doing cardiovascular training, preparing to survive the most extreme of elements – he’d jump
through all the flaming hoops they could find if it meant going on the trip.
“My father didn’t express any negative views when he learned I’d signed up. My mother,
though, who has been a driving force in my life and an active participant, she’s the one who
questioned my sanity,” Rich admitted. “She said, ‘Are you sure you really want to do this? It
sounds like a risky venture. Are you still going to college?’ I just said, yeah, I think so.”
Rich even suggested that it was through the actions of his parents that he wound up
getting chosen as one of the seventeen student participants, since they bought a boat back when
he was only eight. From that point on Rich spent the majority of his time on the rivers near their
home, the Fox and the Illinois and any creeks that were big enough to paddle over. He hiked
24
through the day, camped out at night, spent as little time as possible indoors. For Rich, there was
never a moment of doubt about taking part in the expedition. Even after thirty years, it remains
the pivotal experience of his life.
“I’ve been on some fun adventures, to Italy, Morocco, France, Spain, Jamaica,
Amsterdam – but nothing even compares to this. It was a full year of my life, seeing so much of
America, meeting so many people,” Rich said. Nothing has so shaped the path of Reid’s life as
the La Salle voyage. Instead of accumulating the luster of past adventure and hardships
remembered in the comfort of one’s present, the La Salle voyage morphed into a force of
propulsion that continues to push him in his search for the Truth about La Salle’s history.
So many things didn’t make sense: this is what Rich discovered when he first began
doing research in preparation for the ’76-77 voyage. As he imbibed more and more information
about the clothes the French pioneers wore, the food they ate, their interactions with Natives, and
their notes on the terrain, flora, and fauna, Rich began noticing discrepancies between authors.
Some indicated that La Salle had been in search of fortune and glory, brandishing a cutlass at
every foe, bedazzling various tribes with his verbal acumen (La Salle is said to have known a
number of Native American languages, and the records agree that he was very adept at intertribal
politics). Others argued La Salle was a rogue, cheating people out of money, coercing his men
into dangerous situations, taking advantage of anyone who was gullible enough to fall for his
schemes. And though nearly everyone agreed on the reasons for La Salle’s journey to the mouth
of the Mississippi – he had the bug, they said, the itch to be a great De Soto-like hero of French
legend – Rich couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He simply found too many holes in the story.
After starting college at Southern Illinois University in pursuit of a Bachelor’s degree in
biology, Rich continued to poke around for answers to the questions that had nagged him
25
throughout his three years with the La Salle project. Scores of historians have written about La
Salle – he is one of the most heavily documented explorers of the seventeenth century, since he
penned hundreds of pages of letters to various individuals – but Rich identified Francis Parkman
as enemy number one. Parkman was one of the premier American historians of the nineteenth
century. America, still in its infancy and clamoring to claim other nations’ heroes as its own,
relished Parkman’s seven volume France and England in North America, from which came La
Salle and the Discovery of the Great West in 1869. This work has been the seminal text that
subsequent historians have based much of their research on, and according to Rich, it relies
heavily on the erroneous account of Louis Hennepin, the priest who accompanied La Salle
during some of his explorations, though not for the journey to the Mississippi.
“Hennepin mixes up days, adds things, he changes it to fiction – so the historians reading
Parkman, who used all Hennepin’s accounts, they’re reading fiction,” Rich said. This realization
did not occur overnight. Rich began looking at snippets of documents available in Morris Library
at Southern Illinois University, and when he first began questioning the veracity of Hennepin and
all the more recent studies of La Salle, he was reluctant to disregard these accounts. It just didn’t
make sense that so many people could have been wrong.
In the meantime, life continued. Rich’s interest in La Salle’s history waxed and waned
based on his schedule, his family, his friends. After graduating from SIU he worked for several
years in pharmaceutical sales, only to realize he needed something more stimulating as a career.
At that point he took an exam to become a firefighter, passed, and spent the next fourteen years
of his life in the close-knit camaraderie of the fire station.
“I describe it as sheer boredom punctuated by absolute terror,” he said later. “And when
it hit the fan, it was exciting. I was a paramedic, too, and there’s an awful lot of adventure in that
26
as well.” Rich’s career was cut short when he shattered his ankle during a rescue. He has had
multiple surgeries on his ankle since then and was forced to reconsider the path his life would
take next. Convinced that he could shift his focus to La Salle’s history once more, Rich returned
to school for his masters then took a job as a high school science teacher, molding new minds on
the subject of biology.
However much he enjoys educating, Rich’s true passion remains the study of La Salle’s
history. With his current job Rich has been able to dedicate a larger portion of time to studying
La Salle’s documents, though he admits dedicating so much time to La Salle is like working
three jobs – far and away more rigorous than even his Masters degree. The spike in productivity
satisfies him, despite the fatigue, and the relationship he has formed with his research partner,
Marty Fischer, is one of the “most productive” of his life.
Rich discovered Fischer, another amateur historian, during a canoe trip with his oldest
son, Josh. They’d been battling fierce headwinds for several hours and had only made two miles
worth of progress. After pulling into a small park, they met a man who’d recently been laid off
and was enjoying the time outside. As they talked, the man mentioned a newspaper article he’d
read about an amateur historian who claimed La Salle’s Fort Crevecoeur, believed to have been
built near modern-day Peoria, Illinois, was actually in Beardstown. Since ruins from the fort
have never been discovered, Creveceour has the mysterious status of an important yet invisible
piece of archaeology. Rich requested the name of this amateur historian and at the conclusion of
his canoe trip made contact with Fischer. Finding him coincided with a tipping point in the
amount of knowledge Rich had absorbed over the years, and together they quickly came to
multiple conclusions on La Salle’s history.
27
“Here’s how it really works,” Rich explained. “You start out learning about this idea and
it’s really cool, but you have to amass enough prior knowledge to understand what you’re
reading. It took 20-25 years to understand what was happening with the French, and once I’d
attained that level of understanding I looked at the documents way differently than a novice.”
Between Rich’s experience with primary source documents, and his training in biology (allowing
him to see the changing geology and hydrology through the eyes of a scientist rather than those
of a historian), combined with Marty’s skills in cartography, discovery after discovery fell into
place.
What’s more, Rich has enjoyed an increased amount of free time in the past ten years.
Earlier in his life finding time to do research was in itself a Sisyphean task. “I was teaching, I
had a family, I had kids. My life got in the way of my research,” Rich said. Although he had
summers to immerse himself in the documents, he needed more time to make the larger
connections that were necessary to the project. Whenever he had the time for it he’d pore over
books on the French colonial period, but the project was a sideshow, a hobby. Now all three of
Rich’s sons have moved out of the house, he is single again, and his partnership with Marty
Fischer has given him the opportunity to share his research with someone equally invested. La
Salle and French history in America went from being a hobby to a lifestyle.
“We’re working on a complete and total revision,” Rich said. “What we’ve been able to
do is completely rewrite the history of the French colonial occupation of the Illinois River
Valley. We want to trace (people’s misconceptions) back to where these misunderstandings
began and see how they were propagated and then show them where they went wrong. No one
was looking at original documents, no one ever has, and looking at the originals tells you a
completely original history.”
28
At this point, Rich believes the project will require multiple volumes in order to
“straighten the whole thing out.” The project has changed from intense interest into absolute
obsession, overwhelming every aspect of Rich’s life. Among the topics he has at one point or
another studied are: the early explorations of the 1670s up through the construction of Fort
Frontenac; La Salle’s mission for the king; the completion of the exploration of the Mississippi
River; the story of the Griffon; and La Salle’s interactions with the Jesuits, starting with his
departure from the Order in France.
At the outset the two hoped to find someone already involved in the field of history or
archaeology to take the reins of the project, an individual who could muster support from other
academics. They’d done enough research with primary and secondary sources to feel confident
in their assertions about where La Salle’s forts were located, among other things. To their
surprise, the majority of scholars were not only unhelpful, they actually seemed affronted by the
work the two had done. Time and time again historians turned up their nose at the notes the two
had generated. At that point they felt there was only one option: “When we were rebuffed and
abused, when we were absolutely insulted we said, ‘Fuck you,’ and decided to do it on our own,”
said Rich.
Rich recalled one of the most recent experiences of this nature that occurred during an
archaeological dig. After making contact with several archaeologists, Rich was invited by state
archaeologist Margaret Brown to go on a dig in Illinois. She and others had found the footprint
of an old French fort and believed they might uncover further evidence of the building. During
the weekend Rich tagged along the archaeologists did just that, finding remains of old structures
and other artifacts. Participating in the dig were a number of prominent archaeologists, including
one whom Rich had contacted on numerous occasions in an attempt to gain greater interest for
29
his and Marty’s research. During the excavation Rich approached the archaeologist, who
admitted his trepidation in coming anywhere near the project.
“We spoke in circles… I told him a couple of things he was really surprised by and he
told me they caught his attention,” Rich said. This back-and-forth continued for several hours,
until the archaeologist finally broke down and agreed that he was interested enough to take a
look at the paper. Rich refused to give it to him.
“If it was that hard to get him even willing to read the paper, how was he going to react to
what I said? You have to go in the direction where people will listen and collaborate,” said Rich.
“Instead of giving him the paper I came home and wrote two new ones, and talked to someone
who liked my work. They said, ‘Don’t listen to that guy, he’s crazy.’”
Fortunately there have been several to support Rich and Marty, including the previously
mentioned Margaret Brown. Rich had been writing papers on his research for some time and
decided to combine all the documents into one large paper. After receiving a much-needed
positive response from Brown, he sent her the completed document for feedback. Brown’s
curiosity was piqued as soon as she heard about the project, and she was impressed by the work
she saw; she called it one of the most important pieces of scholarship she’d ever read. She made
extensive suggestions, for which Rich was desperately grateful.
“She was worried about offending me [with critiques] but I was just so happy she read it,
I jumped up and down for joy. My aim is to make the study more readable and accessible,” Rich
said after receiving the red-inked manuscript. “Of course I’m a horrible writer, I’m a high school
biology teacher. I made every edit that she suggested. She knows what she’s doing.”
Brown, however, is among the minority of those who have encouraged Gross and
Fischer. Besides receiving criticism from professional historians, skeptical amateur historians are
30
also eager to partake in the smearing. In 2006, for example, an article was published in the State
Journal-Register of Springfield, Illinois, that described Fischer’s claim that Fort Crevecoeur was
located in Beardstown rather than Peoria. On a blog called “Illinois History,” writer Jon
Musgrave commented on the article and wished the amateur historians best of luck in their
endeavors. Yet further down the page an anonymous commenter quips:
“Fischer and his buddy Gross lay down deep entwined strata of delusional speculations,
prevarications concerning and/or outright misreadings of the sources, the whole
pontificated in self-possessed, smug delusional tones as they tilt at windmill after
windmill, unaware of the ones who have tread these water before them. For example, one
has to wonder where these men have been for the last quarter century in their study of the
study of the history of New France.”
While he may not be familiar with this particular critique, Rich knows his research, if validated,
will upset any number of comfortable assumptions. For example, if the people of Peoria who
have always claimed Fort Crevecoeur as their own were suddenly told the heritage of the ancient
fort belonged to another city, their perception of the city and even their shared past might
suddenly disintegrate.
“It’ll be a disappointment to a lot of people. I expect they’ll be angry,” said Rich in
response to this suggestion. “I don’t know what they’ll think of me. I don’t care. What matters is
if we get this story right or not. Should we teach history or should we teach fairy tales? You
couldn’t tell kids that the flying spaghetti monster is the reason why there are elephants in
Africa. That’s why I do this. I want to know what’s right. For anybody who appreciates the study
of history, not just French but also Indian history … I think they would rather have a story that’s
closer to what really happened,” said Rich.
31
Gross added that he can hardly bring himself to read novels anymore, because there are
too many fascinating non-fiction subjects to learn about. He wants to understand how people
acquire knowledge about the past, and in doing so critically examine his own pursuit of
knowledge.
“It’s an art I guess, as much as it is a science, and to many people it’s fascinating,” Rich
said.
Unsurprisingly, the claim that most of what previous academics have written
about La Salle is inaccurate has not been popular with those who have the weight to decide what
is wrong and what is right. Rich has endeavored to remain optimistic and make his research
available. His efforts were recently rewarded by being granted the position of head historian for
the La Salle-Griffon project, conceived by Steve Libert. With this project, Rich hopes that
eventually his name and work will be accepted in the field of history. Until then, he spends his
nights writing and rewriting essays on La Salle’s history, his days teaching his students, crafting
canoes, observing the wilderness and storing those observations in his head to compare with his
research.
“He’s absolutely obsessed with it. I’ve gone over to his place and he has maps covering
his entire living room floor,” said Reid Lewis, who has stayed in close contact with Rich during
the years since their expedition together. “He’s got unlimited energy. It’s really a beautiful
thing.”
32
Steve Libert: Looters, Litigation, and Luck
Exhausted and running low on oxygen, Steve Libert struggled through the murk of Lake
Michigan and pumped his legs to propel himself through the water. September 2001 marked the
fourth year that he and his dive partners had been returning to the same location, plunging
hundreds of feet down to scour the lake floor. Today the sediment in the water was so dense that
the bottom was invisible even from mere feet away. Now on his fifth dive in 39-degree water,
the search was proving as fruitless as the hundreds that came before. Checking the quivering
needle of the pressure gauge on his vest to ascertain how much oxygen he had left, Steve didn’t
notice the dark shadow looming before him until he rammed into it.
Lake Michigan is the largest body of fresh water in the United States, with a length of
307 miles, an average width of 75 miles, and a depth of 923 feet at its deepest point. The surface
temperature of the water can vary wildly, from 80 balmy degrees in the summer to its freezing
point in the winter when the dark blue expanse transforms into an arctic tundra. Surface
temperatures, however, mean little to divers who explore at great depths. For Libert’s team,
water temperatures had a limited, frigid range: 33º to 42º Fahrenheit. Such numbing cold requires
dry suits and a strong mental fortitude. To repeatedly expose oneself to these intense conditions
in search of a mystery that has remained elusive for nearly three and a half centuries necessitates
more than mere fortitude; you have to be a little crazy as well. Because of its size, depth,
temperature, and the furious storms that frequently turn the water into a seething mess, looking
for something at the bottom of Lake Michigan is much more difficult than digging through the
proverbial haystack.
Shocked by the sudden emergence of a solid object, Steve set a number on the location
and sent up a GPS signal. Later, he would describe the moment as something out of a dream.
33
“Say you get out of bed in the middle of the night to get a glass of milk,” he said. “You know the
room by heart, even in the dark. But all of a sudden you take three steps and run into something.
All you can think is, what is that?!”
Though he didn’t have much time left before he’d be dangerously low on oxygen, he
examined the object long enough to speculate that it was made of wood and projected out of the
loose sediment at an angle. Rushing to get above water again, Libert was gasping for air when he
broke the surface and had to be pulled into the boat by his friends.
“We’ve found it,” he told them in disbelief. After spending nearly his entire life searching
for it, Steve believed he’d discovered the lost French ship, Le Griffon, which was built just
outside of Niagara Falls. It was the first sailing vessel to christen the Great Lakes, and in
September 1679 the lake claimed it as the first of hundreds of shipwrecks. This watery tomb
sealed up the secrets of the ancient French voyageurs and one of the most infamous explorers of
the New World: René Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle.
The story of Steve’s interest in Le Griffon stretches all the way back to eighth grade,
when he was more preoccupied by football, girls, and friends than anything relating to school.
His history teacher, however, had a way of piquing students’ interest. Steve remembers Mr.
Kelly as a tall man who habitually wore black suits and thin ties. On this particular day Steve
was thinking about an upcoming football game, half listening to Mr. Kelly’s description of La
Salle’s ship and the mystery of its disappearance. His full attention was captured when, startled,
he felt Mr. Kelly’s hand on his shoulder and heard him say, “Who knows? Maybe someone in
this room will find it one day.” As a young teen in Mr. Kelly’s class, Libert could never have
guessed to what extent his attachment to the shipwreck story would determine the rest of his life.
34
Now 57, Steve is perhaps months away from receiving the satisfaction he has dreamed of since
that day in class.
Although he was interested in the Griffon, Libert was more preoccupied by his athletic
career. Convinced he could play football professionally, Steve spent all his time in high school
and college training on the field and in the weight room. When he wasn’t training he took flight
lessons, a natural choice for one with adventurous leanings from Dayton, Ohio (home of Wilbur
and Orville Wright). But when he sustained a serious knee injury from football, Steve began to
reconsider which career would suit his skills and interests. Flying at Dayton International Airport
was becoming too expensive for his budget, so he turned to intelligence work. As he studied for
exams to enter a branch of the intelligence community, his interest in La Salle’s missing ship
redoubled.
Libert began spending hours in the Dayton libraries and made trips to Milwaukee and
Chicago to peruse their collections as well. He also identified SCUBA diving as a way to
integrate his interest in La Salle’s history with his yen for adventure, although it took some time
before he could afford the diving equipment. By 1980 he had obtained his diver’s license and the
gear necessary to begin looking for the Griffon in earnest. Steve was aided in his search by a
group of friends who shared his interest in diving and underwater exploration, most of whom
have remained his partners to this day.
In the beginning, they had little hope of actually finding the ship. The Griffon is
described as the “Holy Grail” of the Great Lakes because it was the first ship in this region of the
world, and because of the insight it could offer about the French exploration of the interior of the
continent. After the Griffon it would be another 174 years before any large vessel would glide
through the Great Lakes, and from that point hundreds of ships met with the same fate as La
35
Salle’s vessel, further complicating the search. Due to its age, fame, and the mystery surrounding
its disappearance, divers have been scouring the Great Lakes (mainly Lake Huron and Lake
Michigan) for Le Griffon for decades. Some even claimed they’d found the ship, only to be
stymied when thorough archaeological investigations were held. If the Griffon were to be found,
it would mean a great amount of prestige for the divers as well as the state to which the wreck
belonged. The mystery surrounding the ship’s destruction, its location, and the excitement of
SCUBA diving all contribute to the very particular atmosphere Libert and his crew have
experienced during their dives.
“We’ve had strange things happen to us, like when storms are coming in and you think
you see apparitions. You’re up there in the middle of the night and you think, are they real? It’s
like looking into an open closet at night,” said Steve. Though he is long past the age of believing
in ghost stories, specters and legends have long been connected with the lore of shipwrecks, their
stories spreading from one mariner to the next. In the same vein, the stories surrounding the
disappearance of Le Griffon have been passed from one generation to the next, beginning with
the French voyageurs themselves and the Native Americans who witnessed its sinking.
Modern historians have argued about the cause of the sinking, some claiming the Indians
attacked the ship, killed its crew, stole the thousands of pounds of furs it carried, then sank the
vessel. Still others say that it was abandoned by its crew and went down in a storm. Another
story claims that when it went down Le Griffon broke into bits, battered by the pressure of the
waves, rendering it nearly impossible to locate the scattered remains on the lake floor. For a
while, Steve himself believed the wreck to be at the bottom of Lake Huron and dove in that
location instead of Lake Michigan. The surreal expedition often felt like a wild goose chase,
36
traveling back to the same location and making monotonous passes over the grid of underwater
terrain.
Upon the discovery of the bowsprit or mast of a ship, however, the ineffable quality of
the search was a replaced by the very real challenges of underwater archaeology. Libert and his
partners discussed how to proceed with their find, which they believed to be the Griffon.
Realizing that the technical aspects of archaeology were beyond their grasp, Steve began
searching for scientists to dive on the wreck and perform certain tests on it to determine the size,
age, and composition of the wreck.
“We didn’t want to blow the pyramid,” Steve said. “If I’d been your typical treasure
hunter and wanted to rape and pillage I could’ve gone in there with clam buckets and said, ‘Ok,
let’s just dig this out and see what it is.’ The ship itself is a treasure. You don’t want to take
something that big and destroy the integrity. What am I going to do, do all that blasting for tools?
The ship is what we’re after.”
If the wreck were identified as le Griffon it could provide invaluable data about La
Salle’s expedition and the lives of French frontiersmen in the seventeenth century. Not only
would archaeologists have access to all the tools, weapons, and other paraphernalia of the French
voyageurs, they could also use software to replicate the sinking of the ship, which would
possibly allow them to understand just how the Griffon ended up on the bottom of the lake.
“It’s like a puzzle, a mathematical puzzle underwater,” Steve said, trying to explain the
intricacy of exploring something that’s buried beneath sediment and hundreds of feet of water.
After calling in archaeologists to perform carbon-14 dating tests on the protruding
bowsprit, they were able to determine that the age of the wreck fell within the appropriate time
period. That piece of information, however, was hardly enough to ascertain the identity of their
37
find. The breakthrough that truly excited Steve was when archaeologist Scott Demel, a former
curator at the Field Museum of Chicago, discovered the length of the trunnels used in the
construction of the boat. Trunnels, also known as treenails, are wooden nails once used in
shipbuilding and other types of construction. As he emerged from the depths, Demel announced
excitedly that the trunnels measured 12.8 inches apart – the measurement of a French foot during
La Salle’s time. If the trunnels were separated at a distance used by the French it indicated that
the ship probably was French, and there were no other French ships sailing in that part of Lake
Michigan at the same time. Even for hundreds of years afterwards, most ships in the Great Lakes
were British.
The early stages of identification were put on hold shortly after the discovery was made,
due to the legal proceedings that followed. When Steve Libert discovered what he believed to be
le Griffon in 2001 he did not anticipate the excruciating process required to acquire the legal
rights to dive on and excavate the ship. It wasn’t until 2010 – nine years after the initial
discovery – that an agreement was reached between the State of Michigan, the Republic of
France, and the Great Lakes Exploration Group (which Steve founded for the purpose of
studying the ship). During the nine years that he battled the State of Michigan for the right to
work on the wreck, Libert would spend his typical ten-hour day at work in Washington D.C.,
come home and go through legal documents from 6pm till midnight or 1am, and average four
hours of sleep.
The reason for such a complicated legal process is a law from the late eighties. The
Abandoned Shipwrecks Act of 1987, signed into law by President Reagan, states in Section 6
that, “The United States asserts title to any abandoned ship wreck that is: embedded in
submerged lands of a State; embedded in coralline formations protected by a State on submerged
38
lands of a State; or on submerged lands of a State and is included in or determined eligible for
inclusion in the National Register.” In other words, the shipwreck Steve discovered legally
belonged to the State of Michigan because it was submerged in the sludge of Lake Michigan –
unless they could prove that the wreck wasn’t actually abandoned or that it belonged to the
country of France.
The reason for such a stringent law about salvaging and shipwreck discoveries stems
from the fact that thousands of wrecks in the Great Lakes were damaged by looters and treasure
hunters in the years leading up to the passage of the law. In most cases, private individuals are
not looking to preserve the historic significance of a wreck; they simply want to find valuable
artifacts and gain acclaim for discovering x ship. For Steve and the Great Lakes Exploration
Group, the endeavor was always a scientific one. If they located the ship they planned on
enlisting the aid of the appropriate underwater archaeologists, divers, and even forensic experts if
human remains were uncovered.
Another challenge associated with ownership of shipwrecks is that of protecting the
wreck. A section of the Abandoned Shipwrecks Acts says that states must protect and preserve
the wreck as part of the regional heritage. The state determines whether this protection takes the
form of a special site for divers to view the wreck without causing any damage, or if the wreck
will be excavated and removed. For the Great Lakes Exploration Group, protecting their find has
been difficult due to their limited resources.
“We used another adventure as a cover-up while we were looking for the Griffon, the
legend of the Poverty Island gold, since we were near that island. A lot of people wanted to know
what we were doing, and if they thought we were looking for the Griffon they’d want it,” Steve
said. After the group made their discovery they worked hard to preserve the secrecy of the site,
39
initially refusing to provide the State of Michigan with the coordinates. Since they based most of
their operations out of Charlevoix, MI, they enlisted individuals who would monitor the area and
notify them of any unusual activity.
“If the site gets looted they’ll say it should’ve been in the hands of the government or
academia,” Steve said of the State representatives they fought in Court. “Once we know it’s the
Griffon the site’s security will be beefed up and it will make me feel a lot better. We’ve kept the
site secretive for over ten and a half years at this point.”
But at one point the secrecy was endangered, and according to Steve the group was
actually a governmental organization – NOAA and the State of Michigan, whose breaching of
the site was witnessed by private individuals who then attempted to search the same area. The
incident occurred several years before the Great Lakes Exploration Group and the State of
Michigan had come to an agreement on the fate of the shipwreck and caused a certain amount of
hard feelings and accusations on both sides.
The economic recession has not made Steve’s work any easier, since few people are
willing to act as financial backers. Normally ventures such as the one pursued by the Great Lakes
Exploration Group would have found more financial support, which could have helped with the
protection of the wreck. “But right now we need to get this economy back on a roll and people’s
livelihoods going again,” Steve said. “Once that happens people will take an interest in
discoveries such as ours.”
Besides the looters and legal challenges of the project, Steve has also had to master time
management. Because he is in the upper levels of the intelligence community in Washington,
D.C., Steve is rarely able to spend much time away from the office. In a typical year he will
travel to Charlevoix, Michigan only a few times, leaving Virginia after he gets off work in the
40
evening and driving the next 22-26 hours straight so that he can reach the lake with plenty of
time left for diving. At one point a journalist from The Washington Post who’d taken an interest
in Steve’s double-life asked to accompany him on his marathon drive a third of the way across
the country. Although Steve wasn’t planning on going all the way to Michigan, he did have an
upcoming trip to Dayton, which he encouraged the reporter to tag along for. The two left
Virginia around 11:30pm and drove through the night. Upon arrival the reporter succumbed to
fatigue, while Steve stayed up to do some work and took a nap around 3:30pm before finishing
out the day. By the time the pair arrived back in Virginia Steve remembers the reporter was
“completely wore out.”
“I said, ‘Had we gone all the way to Michigan you’d have been up for another day and a
half.’ He couldn’t understand how we did it,” Steve said.
Such an intense schedule is clearly not for the faint of heart. But until this past summer
Steve could always recover from the lack of sleep and physical toll numerous dives took. He
enjoyed working with his dive buddies and the excitement of their discovery being revealed as le
Griffon energized and motivated him. Over the summer of 2011, when members of the Great
Lakes Exploration Group began more extensive tests (including sub-bottom profiles, which
produce images from below the sediment), Steve was injured.
“In June everything went off fine but we had problems with the sub-bottom profiler,”
said Steve. “It’s a prototype of an expensive piece of equipment. The housing on it that holds it
up broke and the stainless steel pole snapped. We had to tie it off. I had a rope around my arm
tied to it. But because of the wave action, (the profiler) went into the water and strained the hell
out of my arm. I felt a pop and tear and fell on the deck of the ship.” He decided against going to
the doctor’s although he should’ve immediately after the trip. It wasn’t until he fell sick with
41
pneumonia and was hospitalized that he learned that, in addition to needing surgery for a torn
ligament, the accident over the summer had also caused a blood clot in his lung. He has promised
himself to go easier on his body in the future.
Despite all the problems and unforeseen obstacles, the endeavor has been worth the
hassle. The adventure of searching for – and possibly discovering – La Salle’s wrecked vessel
has given his life direction and brought him satisfaction, excitement, and close bonds with
friends. Though he’s been around the world, dived on a variety of shipwrecks, and even
consulted with the famous marine-adventure writer Clive Cussler, Steve calls his work in Lake
Michigan “the most memorable diving expedition of his career.” Because this wreck, unlike so
many others, is his find.
“When somebody else finds it and you go dive on it, it’s nice, but I wanted to go out and
find a virgin shipwreck,” Steve explained. “I wanted to research a wreck and go out looking for
it and finding it. It’s different than going out diving and just finding something. A lot of
shipwrecks have been found that way. Like a lifeguard off the coast of Florida who was warming
up and swam over a Spanish galleon – he swam there every day but a storm had uncovered it.
Imagine if you’re the same lifeguard and you’ve been searching for years and suddenly found it.
It’s a big difference! It’s not just the shipwreck, it’s saying, ‘This is exactly where I put this ship,
it’s exactly where we found it.” There’s something to say for being proven right. And if the ship
is le Griffon, Libert can at last experience the satisfaction of knowing he found the X that marked
the spot.
But Steve admits to having some regrets, most of which will not disappear even if his
work is validated and the shipwreck is proven to be Le Griffon. “Sometimes if I can’t sleep I’ll
get up and come downstairs. I sit and think about years ago, day one, how all this started. Who’d
42
ever believe this would happen?” Steve said recently. “I think about my in-laws and my parents,
and how I took time out not to visit them, and they’re all gone. I think, was it all worth it trying
to identify it? I’ll be turning 58 at the end of March, it’s been 44 years since this started…. I
don’t know what else I would’ve done if it hadn’t been for that.”
43
The Future of History
On a November weekend, Rich and Reid, both natives of Illinois, presented their work on
Steve’s discovery to the French Consul in Chicago. Steve could not attend because the weekend
coincided with the Thanksgiving holiday and there were no tickets available for any airlines. The
goal of the presentation was to keep the French representatives informed of the progress being
made with the Great Lakes Exploration Group’s progress. Since it is suspected to be a French
ship, France has been fairly heavily involved with the legal proceedings over Steve’s find. Reid
recounted the success of the presentation and anticipated that the newest consul general would be
more engaged than the man he succeeded. Active participation is precisely what the project
needs to be successful, and the ship’s identification as the Griffon is a necessity for Reid’s,
Rich’s, and Steve’s individual goals for the future. Because of its physicality, its importance to
archaeology and the history of the Great Lakes, the Griffon could easily launch a number of
related projects.
For Steve, the coming summer will hopefully result in the grand unveiling. “The primary
objective is to go where the bowsprit/mast is and excavate. We have to figure out which way it’s
laying,” Steve said recently. He explained the difficulty of digging out such a large object,
despite the fact that it rests buried beneath mere feet of loose sediment. “If it’s filled from the
inside it could just explode from all the pressure, and if you start digging inside instead of
outside it could implode. Every possible thing that you could think of will go down with the
research design and is basically a map that lays out how it will be done and what happens in
certain situations.”
Although the summer will be a major step forward in identifying the ship, the project will
take years to culminate if the ship turns out to be La Salle’s. Scientists will have to slowly
44
excavate the vessel and extract the artifacts. The surrounding area will be scoured in case any
objects were scattered when the ship went down. A full excavation of the ship might take years;
restoration could conceivably take decades. In a similar case off the coast of Texas, one of the
ships that carried La Salle and the settlers on their ill-fated voyage to the Gulf of Mexico was
discovered buried below layers of sediment. After being identified as La Belle, archaeologists
spent five years uncovering the ship – and that’s in a location where ice does not prevent divers
from working for a third of the year.
Despite the daunting duration of the work facing him, Steve is assured that his discovery
will prove to be le Griffon, no matter what others say. At this point he is playing “a waiting
game” and tentatively laying down the foundation for future plans. “If it is the Griffon we’re
hoping that multiple museums will be interested. It could be housed in the Great Lakes,
Michigan, Illinois, Wisconsin.”
For Steve, the conclusion of the project will be a relief. Although there will be much
work to do after the ship is identified, it will be small in comparison to the work that’s brought
him this far. That said, his plans are – as they always have been – ambitious. In addition to
finding a writer to detail the adventures of finding le Griffon (including everything from Steve’s
childhood influences to the political skulduggery that occurred during the legal proceedings),
Steve also dreams of gaining the attention of filmmakers who could bring the story to the
masses. It’s not hard to imagine such a picture coming to play at theaters around the country.
Rich has coordinated his interest in the project with his work as an amateur historian and
plans to quit his job as a teacher and work on presentations on the ship if it is positively
identified as the Griffon. Renewed enthusiasm for French colonial history might mean more
support for his own research. At some point he hopes to do more than pen academic papers; he’d
45
like to be the next Howard Zinn, upsetting the status quo of history, making arcane facts
accessible to the public.
“I’d need someone to ghostwrite it with me,” Rich admitted. “I’m a terrible writer. I can
write scientific documents, but I didn’t even really start reading till I had to, in high school.”
That said, Rich has begun formulating a plan B in case the find is a disappointment. “I’m
contemplating going down and training to become an archaeologist,” Rich said. “I’ve looked at a
lot of theses online and the work I’ve done [on La Salle] is exponentially more, so I think I could
do that quite easily. If it’s not the Griffon I go in another direction with my life, and if time goes
on I could go do the excavation [on different French forts] myself.” At this point Gross has
established enough connections that three or four people from France have contacted him about
the French history in North America. He told them he would be interested in collaboration, but is
holding off on making any moves until the ship is identified.
Advanced enough in his career, Reid Lewis could easily have taken a back seat for this
project. Yet his tenacious determination to involve other people in the French legacy of the
Midwest, and to leave behind his own legacy, has prompted him to be actively involved in the
fate of le Griffon. Specifically, Reid envisions the ship being used to strengthen the alliance
between France and the United States. This interaction would involve increased sharing of
history and culture, and perhaps an opportunity for France to show the ship in their museums.
The point of a legacy is not for his own glorification, but so that future generations can learn
from his work and identify the similarities in one another rather than the differences. Ever
emphasizing the need for humans to assist each other in the path of life, Reid hopes the Griffon
could be used to unite two countries that had much in common at their origin but have grown
distant since that time.
46
Through the sacrifices, the trials, the long-term injuries, the financial burdens and
difficulties of living two lives, these three men have proved time and again that history can be
more than a static story, trapped in the dusty pages of textbooks. It is an attitude, a lifestyle. And
although it can never be fully dredged from its resting place in the past, they will all have the
satisfaction of saying they lived alongside La Salle, one of the most revered explorers in colonial
North American history.
47
Finding La Salle
History is in vogue. From the popularity of ancestry.com to using the ancient Mayan
calendars for 2012 doomsday predictions, everyone seems to be absorbed in discovering what
happened to those who came before in order to find direction for their own lives. This sense of
connection to the past is particularly evident in Kingston, Ontario, site of La Salle’s first
seigneury (Fort Frontenac), where the city hockey team is actually named the Frontenacs. At one
point I stepped into a Tim Horton’s to escape the bite of the wind and was greeted by a large
poster proclaiming “Proud to be part of Historic Kingston.”
Even their donut shops are hopping on the history bandwagon.
I spent my first day in Kingston at the Cataraqui Archaeological Research Foundation,
named for the river that forms the lower portion of the Rideau Canal (a waterway connecting
Ottawa to Kingston) and drains into Lake Ontario. The CARF houses a small museum display,
an office area for the five staff members, a large archival room, and a basement with almost 1000
boxes of collections. I called ahead earlier to schedule an appointment with the curator, Ashley
Mendes, and was surprised to meet a young woman only slightly older than myself.
A recently graduated Master’s student, Ashley volunteered at the CARF during her time
as an undergraduate at Queen’s University in Kingston. Before giving me a behind-the-scenes
tour of the Foundation, Ashley invited me to walk around the small museum section. The exhibit
begins with prehistoric Paleo-Indians, describing their suspected origins and the effects of their
presence in the region. Subsequent displays hold an assortment of arrowheads and beaded
artifacts, as well as artistic portrayals of the tribes from the area. Most of the exhibit is dedicated
to British and French colonial history in Kingston, including a model of La Salle’s Fort
Frontenac and photos of the 1983-85 excavation that uncovered large portions of the original
48
fort. As I turned around the last corner of the exhibit room I noticed a guest book containing
more signatures than I expected (there were no other visitors that day, and Ashley was quick to
note the museum is only a small part of the Cataraqui Archaeological Research Foundation). One
of the most recent signatories noted their hometown as Perth, Australia – a long way to travel for
a visit to a small, regional museum.
After my perusal of the museum I met with Ashley once more and she introduced me to
the other members of the foundation, many of whom were engaged in research or organizing
future excavations. In the summer, Ashley explained, the Foundation focuses on educational
programs for children and adults called “Can You Dig It?” The participants explore real
archaeological sites – Kingston contains a number of these because of the British colonists who
lived here for many years – and dig for artifacts. None of the artifacts are planted by the
members of the CARF; they are all genuine, ancient pieces of Kingston’s past people.
“People in Kingston are invested in their history, some more than others,” Ashley said
when I asked if this was a sign of their attachment to the settlers. “The Kingston Historical
Society has been around for about 100 years and it has a lot of members. Some people get really
into the history and if it were up to them they’d preserve the city exactly the way it was.” She
laughed at this idea, perhaps acknowledging the difficulty of preserving anything forever. “The
collection [at the Foundation] is accessed fairly often for people doing research projects from
different areas.”
But Ashley also noted that people in Kingston feel a much stronger relationship with their
British history than with the French. Most of the work done by the CARF involves British
Loyalist history and the lives of settlers in the nineteenth century. The CARF is actually gearing
up for a major year of celebration since 2012 is the 200th anniversary of the War of 1812
49
between the British and the Americans. The war took place on the Great Lakes, and anyone who
is from northern Ohio will likely have learned about Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry’s stand
against the British. He is famous for both the flag flapping above his warship that stated, DON’T
GIVE UP THE SHIP as well as the monument named after him on Put-in-Bay, South Bass
Island (at 352 feet it is the world’s largest Doric column and is among the largest of the United
States’ monuments).
As we discussed history and its implications for modern people, we descended to the
basement that holds the Foundation’s artifacts. Like most basements it was dimly lit, musty, and
crowded with rows and rows of dusty boxes. Ashley led me to the viewing cabinet, organized by
material and type of artifact. The drawers stuck when we tried to open them, requiring tentative
tugging to reveal the small relics inside. I pulled out old ceramic shards painted blue and white
(British period), disposable pipes that Ashley compared to the cigarettes used today (British
period), and bones from local fauna that had been uncovered at sites. Nothing in the collection
came from the French period of Kingston’s history.
I spent my last hour at the Foundation going through old records of Fort Frontenac and
descriptions of La Salle. One described the excavation of the French fort, while others detailed
La Salle’s work in Kingston and catalogued the expenses of explorers, construction workers, and
governors in New France. The most noteworthy passage I came across was a quote taken from
the French historian Lamontagne: “Fort Frontenac was founded in the enthusiasm of a glorious
era of expansion for the Kingdom of France and the Reign of God … the visible ruins that
remain [from La Salle’s fort] will forever testify to their past influence” (self-translation). Cited
by Michel Fontaine in the article “Établissements Français d’Amérique et des Antilles,” the
passage illustrates the optimism of La Salle and his contemporaries and their assurance of the
50
longevity of the French legacy in North America. What would he and others think if they saw the
region now? Would their relative obscurity be a disappointment?
*
*
*
The next morning I set off to explore Kingston’s waterfront and visit the remnants of La
Salle’s fort. The history of Fort Frontenac is a complicated one, since Kingston’s location at the
conjunction of the St. Lawrence River and Lake Ontario made it an important center for trade.
Fort Frontenac was also the site of naval and land battles between the French and the British.
After its initial construction in wood, Fort Frontenac was rebuilt in limestone and mortar and was
later reutilized and eventually destroyed and rebuilt by the British. The French were at the site
for a total of 85 years, from 1673 to 1758, at which point it was won by the British and remained
in their control until it was transferred to Canada. Today the original fort is buried beneath the
more recent construction.
Before battling the glacial winds coming in off the lake I stopped in a small café to grab
something to eat and wound up in a long conversation with one of the locals. The man was
heavyset with short gray hair and a stubbly beard. He sat behind a large Mac monitor,
occasionally peeking out at me as I ate my breakfast. We began our conversation with a
discussion of books and movies, which brought us to the only introduction he would allow: that
his middle name was Errol, from the actor, surname of Flynn. Errol beckoned me to come over
as soon as I’d finished eating so I could watch a movie clip on his screen from a historic TV
show that documented the Napoleonic Wars. Errol wore a white shirt with suspenders and
occasionally rearranged the thin scarf that hung over one of his shoulders as we discussed the
talent of Sean Bean, who played a lead role in this particular series. Following this short viewing
I asked Errol more about his experience in Kingston and if he enjoyed living here.
51
“Kingston is an interesting place, but I don’t know much about the history here since
we’re from Toronto,” Errol explained. He went off on a long tangent about a woman named
Laura who discovered an invasion by the Americans during the War of 1812 and later had a
cookie or a trinket or something like that named for her. He wondered if Fort Frontenac was built
during the same time period as Laura’s epic achievements, and I was finally able to interject and
explain what I’d learned of the fort’s importance to French history.
“Oh,” Errol said. “I didn’t know there were any French here.”
By that point I’d learned enough about Kingston to not be surprised by this confession.
After paying and returning my dishes to the counter I walked out of the café and headed
in the direction of Fort Frontenac. It was sunny if cold, the clouds scurrying across the sky and
erupting into occasional flurries. Behind the City Hall hordes of kids still out on winter break
skated across the ice rink and periodically trooped into surrounding shops and restaurants to buy
cocoa or coffee. Kingston has a slightly European atmosphere in the main area of the city; the
shops are small and stacked one on top of the other, with wood paneled facades and names like
“Mugs and Truffles.” There were Asian restaurants as well as more traditional pubs, and for
every store name I recognized there were three more I didn’t.
Several inches of snow lined the sidewalks and the streets were filled with dirty slush.
Chunks of salt crackled underfoot as I walked towards the lake, and the wind increased as I
approached the shore. I walked north along an empty street, following the walls of the modern
fort, having been informed that visitors could ask to go inside and see the uncovered portion of
the original French fort. I entered the open gate, wide enough for a car to pass through, and
hesitantly took a few steps forward. No one appeared. After a few more steps a man in a camo
ensemble and wraparound sunglasses approached and asked if he could help me. When I told
52
him I wanted to see the part of the fort that had been excavated he indicated a small dip in the
earth at the center of the parking lot.
When archaeologists removed the earth covering the old fort in the 80s, they were forced
to refill much of their digging area. The original Fort Frontenac does not lie directly beneath the
modern fortification, but perpendicular to it, and it extends into the streets just beyond. Places
d’Armes Street was realigned during the excavation, allowing archaeologists to excavate the
north curtain wall of La Salle’s fort. Although the city agreed to a reconstruction of the roads,
which would allow for a replica of the north curtain wall to be built in a small patch of grass at
the triangular intersection between three roads, the only section of the original fort to remain
uncovered is the little pit inside the modern Fort Frontenac.
Mine were the only footprints in the snow as I walked around the original foundation,
shaped a bit like a sliver of moon, about four feet deep. Archaeologists speculated that it had
been a subterranean powder magazine, and that the stables would have been located adjacent to
it. I walked down the steps into the pit and failed to reconstruct an image of the original. I only
had a vague idea of the purpose of a powder magazine and had to look up a more specific
explanation later on Wikipedia. I took several more turns around the pit, conscious that the guard
at the front was still watching me, then climbed back out the steps.
As I returned to the front gate the guard began explaining some of the history of the fort.
He worked at the prison, he said, and it was actually the original prison. I asked him if he knew
anything about La Salle and the original Fort Frontenac. No, not really. The history he knew was
that of the Loyalists, the British. I thanked him for explaining a bit more then left the fort and
crossed the street to the small patch of snow-covered grass where the reconstructed north wall of
La Salle’s fort rested.
53
Not a very effective reconstruction, I couldn’t help thinking when I arrived at the tip of
what was originally the bastion connecting the north and west walls. If you didn’t know it was
there, especially if you were accustomed to the sights of this road from spending most of your
life in Kingston, you might not even notice the stubby rock wall. It is overshadowed by the large
K-Rock Centre just beyond it, a building used for hockey matches and performances. The
segment is no more than three feet high at its highest point, and probably extends out about
fifteen feet on either side.
I stood at the V, the tighter-than-90-degree intersection of the two extensions of the north
and west walls, and imagined tall limestone surrounding me, the sound of a blacksmith’s yard
and men speaking French or Native American languages. I tried to picture La Salle himself,
energetically issuing orders to different men. There would have been stacks of furs somewhere
for trading, and stores of provisions to help alleviate the strain of winter. Soot from old fires
would stain the ground in certain areas, and thin streams of smoke probably rose in columns up
to the gray sky. I told myself these details had existed at some point, that the people in La Salle’s
letters were more than names and occupations. But the harder I tried to grasp any sense of the
past, the further the present impeded on my vision. Cars slicked by over the slush, exhausts
coughing fumes into the cold air. The droning of traffic from the La Salle Causeway combined
with the engine of the Wolfe Island ferry produced an incessant hum. A few teenagers skulked
by on the far sidewalk, talking in low voices and smoking cigarettes.
If I couldn’t recreate any semblance of the past at either the original fort or its modern
reconstruction, maybe I could find a stronger trace of La Salle on the water. I walked to the
docks of the Thousand Islands Ferry and strolled out to the very edge. An older man stood on the
opposite end of the pier, seeming similarly absorbed by the sound of the current and the cool
54
breeze. The orange Wolfe Island Ferry had pulled out of its slip and was moving towards its
destination, a long strip of land covered with thorny patches of wind turbines. I watched the gulls
screech at each other and dip down into the dark water. There was no ice, the winter having been
unseasonably warm up to that point in January. Hands chaffed and frozen, scarf tucked as high
around my face as it could go without obstructing my sight, I reflected that maybe this was a
little bit of what La Salle experienced. The discomfort of the cold, the sight of unnamed islands
and open water, the potential for experiencing something new and unexpected every day. Then
again, would he have preferred a more comfortable life with greater material comforts? Did he
enjoy the adventure as much as the stories say he did?
It struck me suddenly, forcibly – the unknowability of history. Wherever I might go, from
Fort Frontenac to Fort Crevecoeur to the Gulf of Mexico, I would only know the basic facts
about his life and legacy. His stories were so far beyond the realm of my experience and
understanding that I would never be able to replicate the exact physical, mental, and emotional
environment. Yet along with this sudden admission of defeat came the satisfaction of completing
my own journey, even if the result was not one I’d expected. Not only had I come full circle in
my research of La Salle, I’d also been swept away by the stories of three men who spent their
lives in search of something beyond themselves, dedicating hours of study and physical labor to
projects that, with the exception of Reid’s La Salle Expedition II, might never be validated. To
have witnessed and participated in their passion and stubborn pursuit of answers, even for a short
period of time, was exhausting and enthralling.
I walked back to my car with the lake at my back. A stream of people head towards the
skating rink as a zamboni finished its rounds on the ice. Watching the excited kids slide over the
fresh ice, I reflected that it’s more or less impossible to escape the grip of the present, even if we
55
have fleeting access to the past and future. We have to do our best to embrace the here and now.
And maybe, when the present is unsatisfying, we can think back to La Salle and his slew of
obstacles and achievements and use his family motto for guidance – toujours plus loin. Always
further.
56
A Note on Research
Listed below are the primary and secondary sources used for the chapter on La Salle’s
history. As stated in the paper, several aspects of La Salle’s history are disputed, and different
sources argue for multiple interpretations of his past. I attempted to indicate these controversies
in the passage, or else used the most widely held explanation.
The sections on Reid Lewis, Rich Gross, and Steve Libert are based on a number of
interviews conducted by phone and in person. Reid also provided additional personal documents
pertaining to the La Salle Expedition II.
Sources
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Bernou, Claude. Relation of the Discoveries and Voyages of Cavelier de La Salle from 1679 to
1681. Paris, 1682. Trans. by Melvin Anderson. Caxton Club: Chicago, 1901.
Fontaine, Michel. “Établissements Français d’Amérique et des Antilles, Canada, Présence
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Lac Ontario (1615) à la chute du Fort Frontenac (1758).” Kingston, Canada. 1997.
Lamontagne, Leopold. Royal Fort Frontenac. Trans. by Richard Preston. Toronto: University of
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La Salle, Rene-Robert Cavelier. Official Account of the enterprise of Cavelier de la Salle from
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Stewart, Bruce. “The Structural Evolution of Fort Frontenac.” Northeast Historical Archaeology.
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