I loved it, but I gave it four stars, because historical nonfiction, slash, mixed with a tale about canoeing an old "pays d'en haut" route NOW, in 2016, is not for every reader.
You may have to have an interest in canoeing, and in the history of North America, esquimaux & mountain men and Canadian first nations peoples.
The Northwest Company and its competitor, Hudson Bay Company wanted to find a Northwest Passage so they could swap furs with China, back in olden days of yore & colonization of earth by "the whites". Mr MacKenzie is a partner in The Northwest Company, so he goes canoeing on the Disappointment River, disappointing because it leads to the frozen ice floes of the Arctic, instead of directly west, south of Alaska, like he wishes it would do. Later, the river is named the MacKenzie River because he was such a badass to actually canoe it, and because he drank so much that he died of old age at 57. And PS Lewis and Clark read of his travels, and took a copy of Mackenzie's journals of geography and of not finding the northwest passage with them, on their trip out of St. Louis after Mackenzie's travels (1789) Lewis & Clark (1804-06)
Does every book contain some words that are a part of Life, the Universe, and Everything? (PS that exact phrase is actually the title of a book by Adams; it is part three of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy five part series. I should read the book "Hitchhiker's Guide" again, because it is insane to the point of genius. It says a lot of shit like that asking the ultimate question of the meaning of life, and hearing the answer of the meaning of life are mutually exclusive activities, can never happen in the same universe.) Well, I think it is possible that Truth may BE contained in MANY of the books THAT YOU LIKE, but not the books that suck so much that you do not finish them. And here is the big truth hiding within this canoeing book:
An historian asked one of the last of the North West Company voyageurs, what's up(?) in the 1800s, and my review ends with his answer:
I have now been forty-two years in this country. For twenty-four I was a light canoe-man; I required but little sleep, but sometimes got less. No portage was too long for me; all portages were alike. My end of the canoe never touched the ground till I saw the end of it. Fifty songs a day were nothing to me. I could carry, paddle, walk, and sing with any man I ever saw. During that period, I saved the lives of ten bourgeois, and was always the favorite, because when others stopped to carry at a bad step, and lost time, I pushed on--over rapids, over cascades, over chutes; all were the same to me. No water, no weather, ever stopped the paddled or the song.
I had twelve wives in the country. I was then like a bourgeois, rich and happy; no bourgeois had better-dressed wives than I. I beat all Indians at the race, and no white man ever passed me in the chase. I wanted for nothing; and I spent all my earnings in the enjoyment of pleasure. Five hundred pounds, twice told, have passed through my hands; although now I have not a spare shirt on my back, not a penny to buy one. Yet, were I a young man again, I should glory in commencing the same career again. I would willingly spend another half century in the same fields of enjoyment. There is no life half so happy as a voyageur's life.
So, in summary, a man was asked about his life, and he responded to an historian who he saw was taking notes, "I, my good man, was a bad-ass." He was not the first nor the last man to describe his life in such a manner, and that says something about the human species, and about the two genders, about having a life/work balance, about fun, and about everything. But I do not know what that thing is.
The End