But when we arrived in Charlevoix towards the end of the afternoon on Wednesday 3 May, heavy, almost black-grey clouds had settled at our feet over the mountains of Éboulements.
Sheltered from the cold rain, in the door of an old forge, Jacques Desgagnés, 76, cursed the wind. Damn Northeast. i hate this wind He’s a bad weather builder. It never does any good.
A helicopter circled the tortured sky. Earlier in the day we discovered the body of Régis Lavoie, 55, and when we met Mr Desgagnés, a coast captain by trade, we were still looking for Christopher Lavoie, 23. The two volunteer firefighters from Saint-Urbain-de-Charlevoix were arrested on Monday in swept away by the waters of the Gouffre river.
Jacques Desgagnés in his kitchen.
Photo: Radio Canada / Ivanoh Demers
Sheltered from the harsh cold, around his old wood stove, Mr Desgagnés commented on the latest news from his part of the country. It’s a terrible spectacle. It’s to roar. But the fury of the water, nothing can withstand it. Nobody is equipped to deal with it.
Jacques Desgagnés did not know the two firefighters.
Charlevoix is a succession of villages with their own identity. We don’t speak from one place to another in the same way. We don’t necessarily see each other. We call each other by nicknames. At Les Éboulements we are called Béliers because of the sheep that used to roam our pastures. The people who come from Ste-Irénée say they are capelin, like the little fish that wallow on the beach over there. On Isle-aux-Coudres, it’s the porpoises. Not far from here are the ranks of misery, he refuses.
It pronounces misery with an acute accent. When I was young, it was always said: he comes from the misery, he is a miserable fellow. The land with us is a land of rocks, a land of Cain. Farmers starved trying to get something out of this land.
And the inhabitants of Saint-Urbain? What is your name?
Mr Desgagnés considered the question for a moment. No, I can’t think of it. A guy from Saint-Urbain is a guy from Saint-Urbain. It’s the outback, it’s the forest, the lumberjacks, the mine and the rocky land. I can only tell you that when I was young, the girls of Saint-Urbain were thought very beautiful!
Small barn with the mountains in the background, in Saint-Urbain-de-Charlevoix.
Photo: Radio Canada / Ivanoh Demers
Saint-Urbain-de-Charlevoix is the region of Rosanna Saint-Cyr, the famous character of a brave mother from Le Temps d’une paix, a soap opera created by Pierre Gauvreau that tells the life of four Charlevoix families between the first and the Second World War.
But since Monday, the name of the village of Saint-Urbain has been engraved in Quebec’s collective memory: a bridge being swept away by a raging river, trailers rolling in the raging water, two beings whose lives have suddenly stopped in the mud water because they were trying to help their neighbors.
From Les Éboulements, take the rank Saint-Jean-Baptiste to get to Saint-Urbain-de-Charlevoix. This path, which must be walked due to circumstances, is of great beauty. A vast forest of stubbornly green spruce trees stretches beneath the imposing Laurentian Mountains with their ever-snowy peaks.
But the name of this quiet village is now synonymous with this type of tragedy that marks the spirits. Saint-Urbain-de-Charlevoix, a name uttered in television and radio news programs. A name that makes headlines.
Nicole and Rose-Aline on a bench in the village.
Photo: Radio Canada / Ivanoh Demers
Yesterday I saw my neighbor on TV. Funny, says Rose-Aline Gilbert, 87, who walked to get her mail from the small post office in the village. Régis was my neighbor. He was helpful, that man there, there are no words to describe him. I looked at him a bit like one of my sons.
The old lady’s eyes dim and, under a gloomy sky, conjures up the run of the Volunteer Fire Brigade on Earth. He was a lumberjack, then a cleaner at the Baie-Saint-Paul hospital. Finally a security guard.
Passes by Nicole Tremblay, 75, on her way to the Caisse Populaire. The two women exchange a little, share their excitement. It makes me cry what happened. It’s really hard for a beautiful community like Saint-Urbain, says Nicole. People help each other, people are charitable. It is like it is. It’s the mentality.
Rose-Aline speaks wisely of grief, of the time it takes to grasp the absurdity of a definitive departure. That won’t be the hardest part. It’s that winter when he doesn’t come and help me clear the snow. During the trout season, when he doesn’t bring me fish, I’ll understand that he’s not really around anymore, Régis.
That Thursday morning, at the foot of the hill in Matou, as we say here, where the river swallowed the lives of the two volunteer firefighters, the majority of journalists left. At the same time, Quebec Minister of Public Safety François Bonnardel told journalists at the National Assembly that we must await the results of the investigation into the deaths of volunteer firefighters to decide on their training.
Laurent Dufresne in front of his shop.
Photo: Radio Canada / Ivanoh Demers
Matou, who gave his name to the steep street, was the father of Laurent Dufresne, 83 years old.
At home we were 20 children. The older ones started working early because the father had to get money to raise the younger ones. I started working when I was 13 in the kitchen of a logging camp, says the old man, always standing bolt upright in front of his shop, a motel, a restaurant and a supermarket, all a stone’s throw from The Genévrier Bridge, which on Monday passed under the pressure of the raging masses of water gave way.
I’ve been working for 70 years and took just two weeks off in 2003 to go to Florida.
In Saint-Urbain, the people are brave and the years of misery are behind them. There is full employment here. Employees of the sépaq next door, which attracts more and more hiking enthusiasts, people working in the Massif de Charlevoix, the Charcuteries de Charlevoix or in other innovative companies in the area that have settled in this magnificent hinterland and where the properties are cheaper than on the Coast.
In the convenience store we are told that there are more and more French immigrants. It’s not the plateau yet, but… we’re told with a smile.
I ask Laurent Duchesne if he thinks his village’s name will henceforth be associated with the drama that happened this week. The man nods: It’s quite possible. It definitely hurts a lot, that’s the way it is.
The devastated road near the campsite.
Photo: Radio Canada / Ivanoh Demers
A few kilometers away, Robert Labbé surveys the remains of his campsite. Monday morning we had something to do; By Monday evening she was gone. My brothers and I watched the river destroy 55 years of work in just 5 hours.
The caravans carried away by the river on Monday, unlikely stars of these viral, spectacular images, they were at his campsite, his corner, his alma mater. We’ve been the center of attention since Monday, he said, adding that he didn’t have much of interest to add. That now that everything has been said, we shouldn’t talk about it anymore. That’s where we’re going to move on to something else, and that’s perfect. This is the message principle. One replaces the other, he says. When we think of these two men who lost their lives, he sighs, we tell ourselves that we are alive.
Robert Labbé is just beginning to take stock. I ask him if he’s been in shock since Monday. When she answers yes, her voice breaks. I wish him the best of luck. He walks away in silence. Then turns around and says: We kneel, but we stand up.
Stand but live on a torn road how long?
Two workers are examining the portion of the bridge over Highway 138 that collapsed in the flood.
Photo: Radio Canada / Ivanoh Demers