Ferryman

The last of the river ferries

Ferries…

I believe the first time I rode a river ferry was probably around 1961.  I had just come home from another summer of uncertainty at Bible Camp and was hanging out with some of the more hipster young Christians.  Old cars, white buck shoes and going steady were top of mind.  There were some interesting characters from the little village of Maymont and I liked to hang out with them.

One sunny Sunday afternoon (after church of course) we drove the ‘49 Ford down to the river with a picnic lunch and there I met the Maymont Ferry for the first time.  I did not even know such things existed and it was a pretty big deal to drive a car down the dirt road, then drive that car onto a boat and then send that boat out into the middle of the North Saskatchewan River.  It was like being in the middle of a Lyle Lovett song.

So, when I started writing songs a while ago it was no surprise to see that Sunday afternoon finding its way into the tune.

It’s a bright sunny day

Water’s jumping with light

A little love and some laughter

With the sun shining bright

River ferries, in my home province of Saskatchewan and my now common law province of Alberta, have a long and important history in this unique prairie transportation story. 

Saskatchewan’s first ferries were owned and operated by the Hudson’s Bay Company near Fort Carlton in the 1860’s.  In those early days, there were private operators but costs and unreliability led to ferries becoming a public service in 1898.  They were then taken over by the provincial government when the province was formed in 1905.  This created a service that paid the operator’s set fees, provided reliable amenities and met basic safety standards. 

However, like buggies and coal oil lamps, this once new-fangled way to cross rivers was taken over in the 30’s and 40’s by a new high brow fad called bridges.  By 1936, there were 47 ferries operating in Saskatchewan.  Today there are only 12 of them left. The Alberta story has much the same trajectory.  In Alberta there were 77 ferries by 1919.  Today there are only six.

The song came to me one day while sitting in a bad idea called a Boler trailer with my grandkids.  They had just returned from BC and were going on about the wonders of the ferry ride to Victoria.  I countered with grandfather classic storytelling.  Hey kids, in the good old days, we had and still have ferries on the prairies.  I then told them a few stories that may or may not have competed with the big guys on the ocean.

Later when I realized that there were only six ferries left, I slipped into songwriter mode.  I started to imagine that coming day when the victorious bridge builders spanned the last river crossing and took out forever, the last ferryman.

So, I wrote the song.

It was simply to be about old-time ferries, the ferrymen who ran them and a little bit of public service history.

But…

I kept getting interesting feedback.  My partner said the song felt a bit spiritual.  One old timer thought it had some gospel flavouring and there was also an obscure Zen reference from a friend.  I paid little attention to the critics.  I knew my own song and it was simply about boats and their drivers, right?

Then the subtle messages started drifting in.

Where have I heard about ferrymen before?   There was a long-time book on our shelves and I remembered the quiet impact of reading Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse in 1968.  A man named Siddhartha leaves his privileged life as a Brahmin to pursue enlightenment.  He tries out a smorgasbord of spiritual offerings, then he tries to make a lot of money and finally finds some better light on the banks of a river.  There he meets the ferryman Vasudeva who invites him to stay.

The old ferryman decides to help Siddhartha learn from the river.  Essentially the young man finds the ideal teacher, one who does not teach.  “If I could talk and teach, I would perhaps be a teacher but as it is, I am only a ferryman,” he offers.  The river and the ferryman teach him to listen deeper and to not fear time as a path to enlightenment.

Not what I thought my song was really about, but maybe I had some leftover dormant thoughts still drifting in my skull from the sixties.  Ironically, when I first read the book, I was in Teacher’s College.  I wish I had paid more attention to the notion of teachers who do not teach and learning to listen better.

So, another nudge. 

This spring I was once again invited by Wayne Corner and Annie Froese to take part in a very creative project in High River.  The project pairs artists and songwriters in a collaboration.  This year, the songwriters would submit an original song, and the songs were sent to individual artists to interpret and create an artwork.

So, there was big excitement on a fine night when the songwriters finally got to meet the artists who created works reflecting the songs given.   I was to meet the fellow who would put the ferryman into paint.  His name is Brian Clute and his painting Prajnaparamita met me with an initial, “Oh my.’

Then an immediate, subsequential, “Oh my god” came next.  Of course, I have no immediate god available in reference in my reaction, but I grew up immersed in sacred vernacular.

The painting is a beautiful abstract expressionist vision of a great empty universe. You get lost in it and then your gaze drops down onto the tiny ferry boat at the bottom.  I was gobsmacked to say the least, to see that ferry moving steadfast in that huge cosmos.

Turns out Brian meditates four to six hours a day.  He is a lovely man seeking enlightenment. 

Again, this was not what I thought this evening was to be about.

And finally last week I wrote Charlotte Sloan, an old friend, who grew up on a farm beside the Maymont ferry where this story starts. This ferry was the place setting for the song and my first ferry ride.  She was there.  So, I wrote her and asked if she had any ferry stories.  She is a popular prairie writer with her Dot on the Prairie series. She writes back with memories of such times as when they had to run old Doc Scratch across the river in a basket because of ice conditions.  This is an excerpt she sent me of a sketch from a mystery series she wrote.

It’s called Fog on the River.

My sister Sharon, her husband Bob and I had stayed overnight at his parents’ farm home. In the morning we drove down the winding road to the North Saskatchewan River, where we planned to cross the water on a small ferry. We would be in town in plenty of time for Bob to start work at the bank and for me to be dropped off at my high school.  But we had not planned on the fog.  It was really socked in.  I remember that the ferryman was named Bud. He walked down the hill from his house to meet us.  He shook his head.  “We’ll just have to wait till the fog burns off,” he said.

We waited. We waited some more.  We realized that if we didn’t get across the river soon, we would be late for work and school.  All three of us were ‘big’ on prayer.  We bowed our heads and one of us, I don’t remember who, prayed out loud. “Dear God, you know we have to get across the river right away. Please clear off the fog.” 

Every trace of the fog did not suddenly vanish as we had hoped it would. Instead, a path cleared in front of us.  We could now see the ferry at the edge of the water.  The fog moved back a little further on each side, until there was a wide space right across the water. 

Bud spoke to Bob through the car window. He seemed perplexed. “I guess I can take you across.” We drove on to the ferry. We felt like the Israelites in the Bible story of the Red Sea piling up on the sides and providing a clear pathway through.

It was eerie and awesome to see that fog, still as thick as ever, on either side of us.  As soon as we reached the other side of the river, we quickly drove off the ferry and up the road to our town. As we looked back down at the water, the fog instantly rolled back into the space through which we had crossed. Bud and his ferry were stuck on our side of the river until the fog would later burn off in the morning sun. 

So once again, my memories of crossing the Maymont Ferry had no recollections of answered prayers except maybe a small one to please not let this rickety barge sink.

This little song seems to have a mind of its own. 

Don’t blame me, I had no spiritual intentions. I was just concerned that we may see the last ferryman one day. 

There was to be no enlightenment involved.

May the river ferries stick around for a good time longer, and here’s a little tune celebrating their history: