BOOK ReMARKS: Saku’s Great Newfoundland Adventure

All the great books have memorable opening lines, eh b’ys?
Moby Dick shuffs off with its narrator offering a friendly invitation: “Call me Ishmael.”
The canine narrator of Saku’s Great Newfoundland Adventure [Pennywell Books] is equally inviting: “Hi. My name is Saku.”
Saku is named after Justin Barbour’s favourite hockey player — Montreal Canadiens’ long-time star Saku Koivu, a player I’d never heard of because I know as little about hockey as the devil knows about oakum picking.
Then again, I’d never heard of Saku the water dog until his book showed up at our house.
Saku is a Cape Shore water dog. Water dogs are a breed renown for fetching, especially for leaping fearlessly over the gunnels to retrieve downed birds.
Gem dandy dogs to take out turring, eh b’ys?
An aside, to prove my ignorance has no bounds. I’d never heard of a Cape Shore water dog until I moved the GPA — Greater Placentia Area — in 1970 (Shut up!) and met a buddy’s dog of said celebrated pedigree.
Anyway, the other spring, Saku and his master (?), Justin Barbour, set off to travel over land and rivers and lakes from Robinsons in western Newfoundland to Cape Broyle, way the frig — 700 klicks, for sure — on the province’s opposite coast.
You talk about!
Unlike ol’ William Epps Cormack who in 1822 trekked east to west across Newfoundland following only the stars and his Mi’Kmaq guide Sylvester Joe (whose descendant kin, Chief Mi’sel Joe, Saku and Justin meet in Conne River during their adventure), Saku has Justin’s satellite phone to help keep them on course.
B’ys, forgive me if you had to read that last sentence two or three time to untangle it.
One morning, after sleeping the night away on a bed of green boughs inside Justin’s tent, Saku follows Justin outside into a batch of newly fallen snow only to shortly afterwards witness Justin disappear right before his eyes.
Poof! Vanished.
Justin had fallen into a spruce trap, a snow well, an area of deep, loose snow burying treetops, a hazard to heedless hikers who might accidently step into one.
I too, have fallen into a spruce trap. Once upon a long ago, while heading with some buddies (?) to a pond for a day ice-fishing, I — yes, heedlessly — stepped into a snow well …
… but I didn’t vanish. I brought up on my armpits. Yet, the more I squirmed and struggled to free myself, the deeper I sank into the well.
My buddies (?) safely on solid snow thought my plight was hilarious.
Of course, Justin managed to wiggle his way out of his spruce trap, none the worse for wear.
I, too, wiggled free but by the time I did my buddies, the friggers, had augured holes in the ice and strung lines the length of the pond, for frig sake.
Saku and Justin suffered one serious mishap during their trek. Their Alpacka raft capsized in the rapids leading into Round Pond and they lost much of their food and gear. After two days hard going; however, they arrived at St. Alban’s where they grubbed-up and restocked.
And the next morning paddled off for Conne River.
From Conne River Saku and Justin crossed the Bay Du Nord Wilderness Reserve and eventually paddled down Placentia Bay to Arnold’s Cove before entering the Avalon Wilderness Reserve. Finally, they arrived at Cape Broyle after a 68-day trek.
Way to go, Saku and Justin.
Saku’s Great Adventure is a children’s book written by Marie-Beth Wright and illustrated by Corey Majeau. Along with its text it is chock-a-block with photos and distinctively wavy-lined illustrations, a — drawing? painting? — style that prob’ly has a proper name which I don’t know because of my aforementioned boundless ignorance.
Incidentally, if you want to read the tale from a human perspective, Justin presents his own version of the Great Adventure in Man and Dog Through the Newfoundland Wilderness (Flanker Press].
Back to Moby Dick … and its not-so-famous closing line: “And I alone am escaped to tell thee.”
Saku and Justin may not have “escaped” the wilderness, but they surely did survive it. Since then they have, as celebrities, as superstars of wilderness survival, gone into classrooms and community halls and, like explorers of yore, recounted their exploits.
Kind of survived “to tell thee” I s’pose.
Thank you for reading.

Harold Walters lives in Dunville, Newfoundland, doing his damnedest to live Happily Ever After. Reach him at [email protected]