A Woman’s Musings on Voyageur Culture, Gangster Rap and 400 Years of Male Shenanigans
Naked and squealing, my three male companions and I emerge from the cold water of Lake Superior, inaugurating our 450-mile-long journey to the arctic waters of James Bay. A brisk, early-autumn breeze empurples our extremities as we slide our two heavy-laden canoes into the water and begin our paddle northeast into the Michipicoten River, the first leg of our expedition. Fishing boats speckle the immediate swathe of silver-blue water behind us. Past the fishing rigs, the lake stretches on uninterrupted, the shore of my home state, Michigan, lying beyond the horizon.
