Returning to Saguenay
Same place, different life.
Saguenay appears to be frozen in time, an exact replica of the town I first stumbled upon all those years ago. For me, visiting this town is like looking at life in a rear-view mirror. Everything looks the same, and yet everything is so very different. Sometimes I can reach past the wretchedness of loss, stretch my arms through the silver surface, grab onto those tender memories, and pull them in so close that they meld and warm me. It is in the hope of this kind of moment that I drag myself all the way there, stretching myself thin during the eight-hour drive. By the time I arrive, my heart is empty, gasping. I am so exhausted that I can hardly think.
A friend of mine meets me there, fresh from a music festival in the Eastern Townships. She has come for two purposes: to explore and to provide companionship for this difficult trip. I’m sure she can see that I am hollow, but she drags me out anyway, to a local restaurant where we plan our next couple of days over a local brew and pizza, testing out our French with the waitstaff (same brewery as before, different beer). The dark clouds above scream rain, but we plan out everything anyway. Surely the rain can’t be that bad.
The town of Saguenay, where our Airbnb is located, exists at the very end of a massive fjord, a huge body of water trapped between carved cliffs. Either side of the fjord is protected land, a provincial park. Nature enthusiasts in both cars and motorbikes park at the various viewpoints along the shores, breathing in the landscape. Towards the mouth of the fjord, along the Saint Lawrence River, whales come every year to raise their young, as the food there is plentiful. Our plan is to go whale watching, but we delay our tour by a day because of the fog. Instead, we spend the next day hiking in cool, rainy conditions on various trails that lead to foggy viewpoints on the cliffs (same trails, different weather). We snap a few washed-out selfies, head down the cliffs, and ride back to the Airbnb, sitting on plastic bags on the car seats, clothes dripping.
The boat tour the next day leaves from a small harbour a little ways from Tadoussac, a little secret that I’ve picked up from all the times I have visited. We board a small red and yellow zodiac boat in matching waterproof gear. The rain is holding off, but the captain is unsure if we will see any whales. My memory scrambles in confusion, as the last time I did this tour, there were hundreds, if not thousands, of whales of all shapes and sizes. The captain explains that it has been an unusually cool summer, and the whales have only just started migrating to the area, so I downgrade my expectations (same tour, fewer whales). My friend keeps her wildlife binoculars at the ready as we set off.
In a matter of minutes, we spot our first harbour seal. It stares at us, unbothered, before diving under the surface. The captain follows the shore as we head into more choppy waters. From what I gather, spotting whales is a matter of both luck and weather. As we trail a cluster of other whale boats, we see them—a pair of massive Fin whales. The captain stops the boat. They swim right towards us, arching up and up, before diving down one after another directly underneath our zodiac. My friend and I beam at one another, ecstatic. This was exactly the sort of experience we had hoped for.
Later in the day, we approach Baie Sainte-Marguerite, where the discovery center is located. We are hoping to see the park rangers feed the beluga whales, which are rare and usually only found in colder water. Unfortunately, we miss the feeding, but groups of tourists are still sitting on the watchtower, eyes glued to their binoculars. A smiling ranger loans us a pair, points us in the right direction, and there they are—tiny white heads, bobbing up and down in the distance, several mother belugas with their babies. Satisfied with our day of whale-watching, we speed back along the fjord, all the way back to the town. My friend packs her bags and heads out the next morning, while I set up my workspace in the Airbnb, preparing for the week ahead.
The rainy weather lets up on the second day. At lunch, I wander down to the waterfront where they are setting up a massive stage. Someone is testing the sound system with bright pop music. I wander up the boardwalk, past the giant silver whale fountain, where carved silver belugas playfully tilt their heads out of the water (same boardwalk, different music). In the evenings, I drive to various viewpoints in the park, places full of remembrance, laughter that I can almost hear, a smile that I can almost see. It is exhausting, but the views of the fjord are so beautiful that I lose myself in them every time.
On one particularly ambitious evening, I head up to Monts-Valin Provincial Park. There is a specific trail I want to hike, but the starting point is high up in the park along an extremely steep gravel road. I downshift all the way to first and push the pedal to the floor, praying that my little car can make it, and somehow it does. The walk is fairly flat and muddy, almost exactly as I remember it, utterly empty of both people and animals. Finally, I reach the end: a platform juts out over a cliff, slanted but stable. Here, para-gliders can throw themselves over the mountainous valley, soaring over the endless Laurentians. Pockets of crystal lakes reflect the dimming pink sun in perfect stillness. It is beautiful. But behind the wonder of the moment lies a nagging fear; the sun is setting, the path is muddy and dark, and the descent with the car is dangerous. I need to leave soon, if not now.
A sense of déja vu washes over me. Not only am I walking the exact same path as before, but I have also, by happenstance, chosen to walk it at the exact same time of day. I have made this exact decision before, but the person I had this conversation with is gone. The disorientation of the moment is complete, and I tumble headlong into grief. The only thing that pulls me out of it is the steady descent of the darkening sun, the threat of the dangerous drive, and so eventually I get up and go.
On the way back to Ottawa, I check in with my heart. It’s so full that it overflows. Even with all the pain that only the death of a loved one can give, I know I will return to Saguenay again and again.