Campground De L’Anse, Rimouski, Quebec

Turns out the name Rimouski is derived from a Micmac (aka Mi’kmaq, Maliseet) Indian word.  Given my prior post addressing pronunciation of ‘ac/mack/nack’ words, Micmac is probably pronounced mic-maw.  There are 2 possible definitions of the Rimouski name, the most popular being ‘land of the moose’.  The other is ‘retreat of the dogs.’ 
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The moose one is clear enough; the dog one throws me.  Was there a canine conflict in which one side retreated to avoid being eaten, bitten to pieces, pissed on - whatever dog soldiers do to their defeated enemies?  Or, was it a retreat like businessmen occasionally indulge in, going to some remote lodge or hotel to study or to address a specific subject, while getting know each other better?  The latter seems an unlikely component of Micmac (or canine) culture.  If I come across a Micmac or a talkative dog, I’ll ask for clarification.  I’m guessing there was a wolf pack that hung out here.

The sub I toured.

Lighthouse and maritime museum near the sub.

At last: a sunny day, no rain at all!  Been a while.  Trish went for a bike ride; I washed 2000 miles of filth off the RV and toured the Canadian submarine Onondaga.  It was in operation 1967-2000 so it’s not an antique but not a boomer (atomic missile sub) either.  Always wanted to tour a sub’s interior and wasn’t disappointed.  It’s mind boggling stuff, what with the cramped quarters and a zillion valves, controls, meters, switches, pipes, wires, etc.  Captain’s ‘stateroom’ was 2/3 the size of my MBR closet in LHC; crew spaces/bunks were 18” x 18” x 6’.  That thing made the EDGE feel like the presidential suite at the Waldorf Astoria.
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I think I could have handled sub service but don’t regret not going that way.  Privacy and alone time are important to me.  And then there’s the foul odor generated by 60 men living in a tin can for several months.  Having read numerous submarine novels, it’s my understanding that the smell builds gradually and seems normal - to the long-term occupants.  Someone coming in from the outside though, gets it full force, like running smack dab into a dirty green miasma of pure stink.  OMG!  Who died?  Where do I barf?

 Mr Bite 'Em in the Butt likes to snooze with a fuzzy toy in his mouth.  Nine times out of ten his jaw is clamped down on the critter's crotch.  Gotta give him credit: he knows how to gain control of the situation.  Remind me not to get on his bad side.