WINTER SNOW, WILL IT EVER GO?
No sooner had the words been published, in the last entry of Walden, than winter, feeling undoubtedly slighted for being critiqued as "toothless," had returned with a new vigor of snow and cold wind, ...... so poetic of comebacks and revenge, against those prognosticators thinking her retired and unresponsive; particularly with so much time remaining for her to play and decorate the landscape, before the spring arrives in earnest by late March.
Wise oldtimers, from around here, will tell you late-season snow is what rots the existing mantle, although I have no scientific proof of this at my beck and call. Presumably they are right, and this is one of a few more snowfalls, that will presumably reduce the existing canopy double-quick. Yet it’s hard to look at this most appealing of local scenes, attired so brilliantly in new snow, and think about anything as unpleasant in optics as "decay" or "rotting away." I suppose in a way, I would enjoy the sun instead, melting the existing icy burden, rather than needing more snow, to shovel of course, before we get to bare, mucky ground. In fact, there wasn’t all that much snow anyway, because I can still see the imprint of my boots from a stroll the day before. So it was hardly a major inconvenience to any one with a laneway or sidewalk to shovel. It’s at this time of year when even the snow out on The Bog appears duller, and with less sparkle, and a closer examination, with a clump in one’s hand, would reveal a considerable amount of dirt and other unidentified bits and pieces. The snow absorbs a lot of atmospheric impurities over a winter season. A lot of it is windblown and may contain everything from industrial pollution to granules from all our eroding asphalt shingles.
I love each of the seasons and I find no serious disadvantage to waiting a littler longer for spring’s triumphant return. Despite our family having one of the busiest and most stressful winters in decades, due to illness and unforseen circumstance, I have been so pleased to come home from unpleasant business, to walk these moonlit, snowy old woods......... that have given all of us comfort and pleasure for so many years here at Birch Hollow. It is but a small bit of hinterland amidst the urban environs yet it might as well be Algonquin Park, for all the generous respite and inspiration it provides us daily, as we watch over the birds flitting about in the tree-tops, the deer meandering the far ridge of the lowland, see the squirrels chasing one another through the shadows on the snow, and see friends and neighbors strolling with their children and pets, lost in the peace and enchantments of the Muskoka landscape. In our case, having been forced to contend with the sudden loss of a family member, just standing out on the brink of the hillside, looking down at the expansive lowland, and feeling the afternoon sun against our chests, our faces, and being a part of such a beautiful natural scene, has made us feel so much more at ease, and resolved to "soldier-on" as my father used to say. It is a healing place and a locale that has given us hope and comfort at our lowest, heart-sick moments.
Despite the recent accumulation of snow across this woodland, it is not enough to muffle the tell-tale sounds of the melt. All around me today, are the tiny invisible waterways working down from the elevation to The Bog, and there is gurgling now at the base of a giant leaning pine but I can not see the melt-water’s turbulent decline. There is more snow predicted, and possibly an event of torrential rain two days from now, as March officially assumes the helm of its earth. It may well be that this countryside is unburdened of its snow cover by the third week of March, if the temperatures rise as some sage individuals predict.
As always, even though I lament about the inconvenience of snow and cold, it will sadden me to watch this particular winter conclude. It’s a funny thing, this human nature, that we can actually become emotionally attached, to a time which has knocked us down emotionally, hurt us physically, and been otherwise injurious in one of many forms. Yet like saying farewell to an adversary, we must, at the same time, acknowledge that our lives have changed forever as a result of this imposed liaison; and strangely we can not help but wonder, like a lost, lonely soul, if we would feel its embrace ever again. So as much as this winter has been a burden, as time and events can burden us all in life, it has been a season like all others, in the cycle that will soon bring spring, then summer, fall, and winter again.......just as it will generate life, age and then demise, as we spin through the universe, in a blue, white, brown and green sphere, in that perpetual mystery begging the question..... "so what’s it all about?"
I shall consult my copy of Thoreau’s, "Walden Pond," to see if he had the answer.

THE CHANGING SCENE AT BIRCH HOLLOW
The tiny creek that snakes black and silver through this snow-covered lowland, is flooding over its banks due to the recent early thaw. A substantial snowfall in predicted for our area within the next 24 hours but it could just as easily be rain. This would cause substantial flooding, of our area of the hollow, and rapidly decline the two feet of snow that has covered this part of Muskoka since December. It has been a gentle winter and it makes me suspicious, and at the same time validates that there is something ominous lurking out over the Great Lakes, to make up for the shortfalls of a traditional Canadian winter. It is nice here now, to look out and see open patches of earth, where the sun has melted ice away over the past four days of warm afternoons. I make it a personal philosophy not to wish away time, as it is precious, yet it is hard to quell the inner spirit when the first signs of spring begin, most often, by the middle of March to the first of April. I’m pretty sure though, winter will make a raging return, as she always does, just when we get the urge to down-dress from bulky coats, toques and mitts. Premature mild weather in the midst of a Muskoka winter, can herald cruel punishment when bitter winds and drifting snow, show up before and after, the festive Easter Parade.
There is a great deal of movement around the Bog this afternoon. Deer have been parading along the embankment on the other side of the basin, and there are at least three or more cataracts audible, from my vantage point on the early part of the path. Crows are calling one another about something or other and squirrels are leaping overhead in pairs, a high-wire race to a food source I suppose. I can imagine we might soon even hear the gulls over open water on the lakes, and the honks of geese flying over the Bog in point formation, and it might also be possible to get down the slope, in the next several days, to my creekside portal, to see more clearly the tiny waterfalls as they tumble through the mounds of sodden field grass, and flow silently under the limbs of fallen birches covered in wraps of old vines. It is a most pleasant place in the spring. A perfect hide-away for the writer to wander and analyze; lazily I will remind, as one must be patient and take it all in, experiencing the subtle nuances of regeneration..... new life on top of the old. I ponder if I might also experience a spring resurgence, cleansing through these old bones and veins, even sprout new hair on my balding crown., just by standing in the current of this all-consuming life-force energy, merging of nature’s earth and sky. The spirit, however, has most definitely been reborn hastily, prematurely, and it refuses to wait a moment longer......demanding quite aggressively to be whisked away on those adventures, so well suited to ambitious vapors of the netherworld. I fear this detachment, much as Peter Pan felt uncomfortably alone when he lost his shadow.
Soon these tree-tops will be filled with birds on their way to and from places unknown, and I’ve entered these woods many times, to find the environs quite busy and sound-filled,....... especially on sunny spring afternoons, when the golden light so cheerfully illuminates that which has been dark and cold for the past four months. It is a din, a hub of activity that I thoroughly adore, and the sun beams on these gnarled old writer’s hands, takes the pain away for a contenting while. The damp and cold inspire aches constantly, yet I would rather suffer the pain than give up writing. My wife caught me one day, sound asleep, in a half leaning, semi-sitting position against a sun-drenched trunk of a towering evergreen. I don’t think I’d been there for hours because there wasn’t much pain in my back and legs from such a compromised position...... but what time I had been slumbering was wonderfully restoring to the body none the less. I won’t brag to my wife that I come here to daydream, because she might then offer me a well intentioned, helpful list of progressive chores to keep me at task. I’d sooner keep my hiatus here at the Bog far from detection......because no matter how sincere my explanation that writers need to be inspired (and that this wonderful moor inspires me), it is interpreted rather to the opposite degree......that this writer/husband is simply lazy, and full of folly at the household economy’s disservice. It’s just better to wander away when the tasks are complete, and keep it a private matter between watcher and woods.
There is a powerful aura settling over this landscape today, and it is almost impossible to pull oneself away from being engaged by a late season transition, apparently quite desirous of benefactors like me. It has felt like late March for weeks now, and it makes me wonder what it will be like a month from now, seeing as we have been privileged to such warm and calm now. The watcher today doesn’t experience much fear and trembling, as the beams of sunlight evaporate ice into a wafting mist over the hollow. I can remember standing in this same spot earlier in the winter, and hearing the most unsettling roar of twisting down wind, smashing against the forest like a huge hammer, knocking venerable old trees, three times my age, into an oblivion of splintered wood. There were snow drifts up to my waist and the cold was intense, dangerous, threatening to life and limb. And it was driven by a thundering, cutting wind-force that brought an unbridled revenge, to those who wondered if winter had forgotten the time.
I suppose I feel a little guilty here now, taking advantage of winter’s weaknesses. It’s much more difficult to find profound events in this forest.....without the rage of winter. There’s a subtle resignation today that the writer should wax poetic instead, and like Robert Frost, write about leaning birches instead of the tumultuousness of weather yet to come.
How pleasant for the plaintive heart, the bleeding soul, to feel the soothing accommodation of this tranquil place on earth, and to settle into a sunny patch, against a supportive pine, and feel the strains of anticipation, decline like melt-water into a strong current of deep irrelevance. I will allow myself this lapse in preparation, and think happy thoughts about enchanted places......and give not one stray reservation that it all might soon end, with an arctic-inspired blizzard. I would hate to ruin this harmonious, ethereal vigil with ugly anticipation, about the next bout of winter which might, on a whim, clench down hard upon us with her icy grasp once more......with nary a warning. I dare say to freeze over paradise, just to show she can!

THESE LAST MOODY DAYS OF FEBRUARY
There’s a detectable inner vibration, this morning, from all things buried beneath this failing mantle of old snow. It’s the unmistakable rumbling, in the dark earth, from all the life-forms anxious for that seasonal drip-down, of melt water, to set them free. A warm February, we are lulled into that false security of expecting winter, to be over quite hastily, before its rightful, God-given time, you might say,....and resolved for yet another emergence from hibernation and stalemate. This is a mistake, of course, as these myriad ferns and wildflowers, mushrooms and insects, have been tricked into the same complacency as us weak-willed mortals, such that they would willingly expose themselves, at the first opportunity of spring light, and then be dashed in cycle by the next wave of Muskoka winter. Legendary for being quite unpredictable and harsh. Still having this sense that spring is stirring, not only in the atmosphere but beneath my feet, is indeed a welcome respite if nothing else.
The warm temperatures have caused a considerable melt and any new snow that falls in the overnight period, has diminished by the early afternoon. Those pensive mortals, who despise the winter months, can be seen more regularly now, poking heads out their neatly appointed shelters, to see if they’ve outlasted inclement weather. Like the early buds and reckless ferns that poke through the winterscape early, a change of weather within hours, can bury this place in ice and snow for much of the next month. The ice on the lakes can last out the entire month of April, if it has been a particularly cold season with less snow. I too can get gently cradled by thoughts of an early spring but I might walk out here tomorrow morning and find the trail drifted over by a sudden flurry of snowfall.......and then be burdened by the wickedness that is a Canadian winter.
Without doubt, it is this temptation of early spring that inspires the imagination toward parallel recklessness,...... to bud, blossom forth, set ourselves free to wander, regardless of the setbacks that might now be spiraling undetected in a bitter west wind, building over the expansive Great Lakes. The voyeur, at this moment, worries less about the future than the width and breadth of this present hiatus from the coldest, harshest days of oldtime winter. It is easy to daydream and that is my specialty after a long week of writing in a stuffy office, in company of our cats that also can’t wait to be liberated from indoors. Ah, how wonderful to bask in a pool of sunlight, beating down on an exposed rock face, to make a lingering watcher, feel unfettered and alive.
The trickle of water down a pine trunk, is as pleasing as if a harpist played at my side. The warm, damp wind, has that nostalgic feel that reminds me of childhood, and the million soakers I got on the way, to and from school each day, as the spring and I collided pleasantly in adventure. My mother Merle used to be furious when I got home and left wet footprints on the freshly polished kitchen floor. Even if I wore boots, I could manage to slip into a pool a centimeter deeper than the height of my boots’ best intentions.
I know it’s wrong to unwisely attach spring-time values, to an old and lingering winter but it’s virtually impossible not to allow the spirit a little down time, puddling about and roaming this sunlit birch hollow, like the vapor of goodwill it is.......hoping only it will return when satisfied, to join with this tired old body...... tickled in fact, just to survive for our mutual enjoyment of one more beautiful spring.

WIND AND SUN, SNOW AND ICE, WHAT CALMING PARADISE
The artist might find the wind too strong, the sunglow too intense this afternoon, beating down upon this basking old woodland, of gnarled, venerable friends of the earth. Tall pines seem more immense this moment, poking high into the azure sky. The snow mantle is a sea of twinkling prisms, and the ice appears so deeply black against the enclosure of sculpted white. The painter might feel intimidated by all the truths in this clearly exposed winterscape, where vulnerable creatures of fur and feather, emerge starkly to their predators. They have no place to hide in this stunning light...... with just skinny grey shadows bleeding-out from leaning birches that can not possibly conceal prey from adversarial pursuit. It is free of dishonesty. Free of interpretation....."it is too clear, too exposed, too demanding," poses the irritated artist, as he packs up his kit, and trudges back out the path toward the cabin. Possibly fearing he might also be exposed and hunted. Yet in this bestowed honesty of winter landscape, is the poetry of reclamation. It is the place in this universe, where imperfection is irrelevant, as all is beautiful in the grand merging chaos we see, the amazing sense of order and selection we can not see.....but suspect of nature’s defiance to reveal all inner truths,...... of seasons and evolutions, until by the grace of her first green sprouts that push toward this divine light, we are exposed to its new reality.....the first cascade of water to crack this ice-covered slope, flowing heavier each melting day, into a powerful cataract to force change upon the entombed lowland. Nothing stays the same. Even now in this frozen moment, ice crystals fracture like glass against glass, from its own magnification of light and heat. It self destruction for the regeneration of something else. It does not interest the painter, who cherishes the rage of wind and snow, the inherent art of the winter storm.
It is a calm not wasted on the watcher in the woods, who consumes the peace and tranquility as the thirsty wanderer lusts for the oasis pond. I have arrived just now in a place of raw perfection that asks nothing of the voyeur but acceptance and passive enjoyment. There is no expectation for any random interpretation, whether by paint and canvas, or by heart and imagination. I am able to lean back against this towering evergreen, and feel so very small in this great old world, a mere speck of contrast in this illumination that radiates in a glow, more intense than I have ever witnessed. It pains the eyes, to look out over this brilliance, reflecting back like glowing spears toward the sky, and not feel the ache deep in the skull. This hollow of landscape usually presents in mid February, as poetically dull and listless, the mantle white having deteriorated in the mid-winter melt, to earth tones and slithering black creeks, winding down along grass-covered knolls.
It is a vibrant place, in this contradiction of deep silence, and suspended animation, where for a time, even my pulse seems to have ceased. Yet I sustain to watch the afternoon sun mature, and this yellow glow turn golden, the shadows become tarnished silver,...... and the warmth I felt earlier, has been compromised by the chill wind coming off the frozen lake. It is a precious opportunity afforded me, to watch the mature season slowly losing its grip over the wildflowers and curious creatures of the earth, suspended precariously beneath in their frozen habitat. The coils of new ferns ready to emerge into the sunglow sometime soon. It is, as I feel today, a bright hope eternal that I might, by nature’s grace, evolve here yet one more spring,.... to be a part of this grand revival.....this grander illusion. As the artist may return to capture a more contrasting nature, to his liking, alas I shall remain here in spirit, to cast poetry onto his palette, as silver onto gold paints subtly dull but historic. My footfall now crunches in the hardening snow. Farewell.

An Endless Horizon - A Vision of a Lifetime to Now
Last evening the starscape over The Bog was breathtakingly beautiful. It was a typically bitter February night, the wood snapping all across the woodlot but it was the kind of invigorating environment that encourages one to drink it all in.....enjoy it just in case the rest of the moody second month of the year, provides a succession of storms for which it is known. This morning the air is as clear and refreshing, the sky so blue it beckons us outdoors as if there is some great revelation in this clear, wonderful atmosphere, making us feel the universal connection.....that heavenly feeling, a nirvana about the untold possibilities for the adventurer.....and no earthly reason to box-in one’s eager imagination.
It is on these rare winter days of sun and snow, magnificent blue cloudless sky that the woodland trails pull me onward regardless of what else I may be committed or occupied. I could stand out on the ridge here and be splendidly mesmerized, watching the leaning birches and giant evergreen contrast against the sunglow reflection of those trillion diamond lights, off the mantle of snow, covering so neatly over the picturesque lowland. The wind causes the dried field grasses that rise above the snow crust, to brush together momentarily, and without the chatter of overhead birds and a squirrel annoyed by my intrusion, there would be an intense hush, a sudden silence, a subtle peace even from the bustle, the typical din and earth rumbling of trucks and snow-movers, characteristic of the hometown beginnings of a new work week. It is a moment of reckoning I wish to share with every urban-weary soul, who has become painfully used to jack hammers and earth movers, jet engines whining overhead, and sirens coming from all directions. This silence, this scene in front of me presently, heals the wounds lashed upon the soul, the result of the jagged teeth of frantic pace.....unrelenting life ambitions. After only minutes here, leaning up against the venerable old evergreen, I can feel the gradual unburdening of responsibilities, and if I’m not careful an hour or more will pass, the soothing sun on my face and the glorious silence, removing me effortlessly, from the work week schedule. I will surely catch up on my chores but I will always long for these hiatus periods, wandering this snow-packed trail to nowhere in particular. And this is my passion. To stop when the vista beckons, or there is something unique I wish to examine more closely. Certainly not because I am forced to march from point to point, by some ridiculous command, in a set time for a set purpose.....and the only details I can see are what fall into that perimeter of budgeted time and distance; before I must hustle to the next appointment. Humbug, I say! Alas I am disciplined to be undisciplined when it comes to my strolls in this remarkable, ever-changing Muskoka woodland. And I see nothing at all to feel compromised about. After returning to my office, well, I have no shortage of observations to make via this keyboard. For the writer me, I don’t deny for one second of time that it is the good and vibrant graces of a boundless, limitless nature that continues to nurture the watcher in the woods.......and certainly not the rough and intrusive sounds of mankind chipping away at the earth, to impose something else we don’t need.
To not experience this heaven on earth, is to rob the soul of its nourishment. To ignore this enchanting splendor of winter, is to disregard the true dimension of life itself; the evolving seasons of our cycle, from birth to death, as stark reality of all living things. It is within this illumination and insight that we discover our needs are more elaborate than money and accomplishment can afford. Yet when we pause, and look up from our freshly plowed "straight furrows," as David Grayson initially thought was important, as noted in his book "Adventures in Contentment," the world, the universe it rotates within, is the most precious appreciation to, as they say, the meaning of life.
I have returned from my morning stroll invigorated and excited to write again....though I must confess that even the tap of these keys now seems so atrociously intrusive....and sound nothing at all, like the wondrous symphony of wind and field grass, and snapping cedar in the February cold.

WHAT WE SHOULDN’T MISS ABOUT A WINTER’S DAY
What a great shame, a sin, a betrayal of our instincts, to watch a day unfold from the foggy abstraction, the distance of stress, worry and hurry. How many folks will drive speedily past the beautiful winter scenes between home and destination and back again. What a crime against life, to ignore these tranquil scenes that afford us, each and every one, an opportunity to escape, even for a moment the rigors of the work day. We have become desensitized to so much today that it has become a danger to our respective health and welfare. It’s as if life was meant to be frenzied and frayed, the pace intended to be wickedly fierce and unforgiving. It’s nonsense. Clearly mankind has forgotten the importance of such beauty and allure of nature. We have become a population of zombies, wandering the earth at the command of beepers and gadgets that keep us tethered to the work place longer and longer. It is that unreserved commitment of soul that is sacrilege in this wonderful world, this amazing life. A sacrifice that his killing our humanity molecule by molecule. How fettered we’ve become as a race trying to survive and prosper. It is at the expense of soul, because it is within nature we will find the truth of ignorance, and the ravages inflicted by indifference to our purpose on earth. On our death beds we will appreciate, only momentarily, that the pursuit of wealth and success is invisible at this final accounting. Instead of nurturing our souls and engaging nature as the great healer, we push on to new and more incredible extremes that are impossible to sustain. And when finally, one day, the weary traveler, the work-a-holic, pauses momentarily to casually gaze upon a scene, such as I see every morning from my front window looking out over The Bog, it is often too late to heal entirely mind, body and spirit. Being enslaved by society’s interest in achievement, at the expense of self discovery and pleasure, is a damnation of greed. It is in these snowy woodlands today that the weary voyeur can find inspiration and peace beyond anything man made, man imposed, man inflicted. Away from the false truths, this well trodden path affords a comfortable view over the snow-laden cedars and birches, the towering evergreens along the horizon and willowy saplings that dot the landscape with such an interesting contrast of silver and green. A few moments here, watching out over the sparkling snow in this strong afternoon sun, hearing the trickle of melt water down the little creeks that run toward the lake, and being pleasantly haunted by the windsong in the tree-tops, one can feel peace of mind applied everso gently upon injury.
I watch through the day this traffic parade, and I do ponder how many passersby take but a few moments to glance at the magnificence of their surroundings. Do they recognize that this is the hinterland of Ontario, the rural clime, with a greatly reduced urban conundrum? Or is it true that technology and its advances in communication, have unfairly imposed an urban lifestyle on the dwellers of the countryside......without anyone really thinking about how life has changed in rural Canada, where the urban-weary used to escape the impositions of technology, and the long time rural folk were satisfied with less convenience but more of what they loved. And that always had a lot to with family, quality of life, and wide open spaces. With their headsets on, and management devices in every available pocket, laptops and positioning devices, ready to engage, having a snowy landscape sprawling along the country roadway doesn’t appear to be the wonderful distraction it has always been, living here in Muskoka. It’s wrong. It’s just wrong. Especially when our homegrown youngsters are equally distracted and urbanized despite the fact they life in the heartland of one of the most beautiful districts on earth. Is this reason enough that local politicians and developers should be concerned? To me it is, of course. I don’t really suspect that a naysayer, historical, traditional type like me, will have too much impact when it comes to preserving this beautiful lifestyle we have had in these snowy, tranquil woods for long and long. Some say it’s progressive to embrace technology, and what it can do for us is a blessing of productivity and connectedness in a shrinking modern world. Well, what it has done to us, in a country nutshell, is remove us from the true appreciation of the nature surrounding us, and that is dangerous to quality of life no matter how you look at it. When those who embrace this concept arrive at that last moment of life, will they remember a romp they once had through a beautiful meadow or lakeland, a canoe traverse of a sparkling Muskoka lake, or a business meeting that turned an enormous project into an equally enormous profit. Think about it!

SUCH A GENTLE, PEACEFUL, REMARKABLE DAY
I read in a local publication recently, how our regional government is planning to seek our opinions (in the near future) about the kind of future we wish for Muskoka. While I’m always delighted to find any government body that appears even modestly interested in what the public has to say, I’m skeptical there’s any room at the table for someone like me, who might wish instead to refuse development for a rather lengthy hiatus period, versus encourage urban sprawl further into our beautiful hinterland in the name of progress. I firmly believe we have sacrificed a great deal of our environmental future already in this region, by accepting unnecessary development for the sake of appearing progressive and dynamic. And yet when the local hospitals face serious cut-backs in services, and have an uncertain future ahead, where are the progressives when you need them. They’re hiding, that’s where, hoping it will all blow over. You see, much of the salesmanship to developers, coming from government in our region, is based, as security, on the fact we have a competent medical community and a number of health care facilities close at hand. In the case of luring retirement community investors and citizens to our area of the province, there have been many mistruths presented, such that a hospital closure would be as remote a possibility as a recession. Guess what? The same folks who denied we were going into a recession, over a year ago, are likely the same ones who would argue that nothing could ever compromise our local health care services. So if my opinion is ever sought, which I’m not counting on, I would draw to their attention that greed and speculation mixed with poor insight and projection, is what has endangered Muskoka all along.....and given a writer like me reason to doubt whether public opinion will ever outweigh the determination of developers to strip, bulldoze and build upon every open foot of paradise. It would be nice to think that, for the record, some of our over-development concerns would be noted for posterity at least, so historians in the future can look back and see "what went wrong with public policy" and how money speculation, as a holy grail, sold out another natural gift for profit.
As I look out from Birch Hollow today upon a snow-laden Bog, (one that we almost lost several years ago to development interest), I only wish it was possible to more fully explain to those in power, those with money and influence, just how restorative a place like this can be, if only, one would take the time to walk its paths.....free of cell phones, pagers, and deadlines; and discover that there is an inner truth here about life, death and eternity, beckoning rediscovery. Alas I fear that business will continue to get in the way of objectivity, the kind of insightfulness that might lead local politicians to guard our natural resources with the same zeal as they worry about the health and welfare of their own families. The injuries to our region, the compromises to our way of life in rural Canada, affects us all in one form or another.......and if you have read any of my outdoor writing whatsoever, you will appreciate that destroying our landscape for quick profit would have given this neighborhood in our little town, another row of houses to stare at, at the expense of the natural environs of an important wetland that filters run-off water which eventually enters Lake Muskoka. Was the fight to save this wetland, The Bog, worth it? Just think if we could save many more important natural areas because they’re not just environmentally sensitive but because they are vital to our way of life in the hinterland.....where being surrounded by healthy forests and waterways is good for the heart and healing to the soul. Is there any room for an old poet, a weary philosopher in this new initiative to map out the future of Muskoka? I think not. Unless of course I can make this all an economic stimulus! Heart and soul.....well being, peace of mind, inspiration not found in a bank roll? Preposterous!
Most recently my father, Ted Currie Sr., passed away in his 85th year. When I was ten or eleven years old, existing in an urban neighborhood in Burlington, Ontario, my father jumped at a chance to work for a lumber company in the Town of Bracebridge in this beautiful District of Muskoka. He didn’t want his son growing up in the city, as he had, in Toronto’s Cabbagetown, one of the toughest neighborhoods in Canada. I can’t explain what the move has meant to me over the decades other than to say it brought me to this present Walden at Birch Hollow.....a quiet little street abutting this tranquil woodlands not so far from the main street of Gravenhurst. He lived his final days in an equally picturesque spot on the Muskoka River, near the Bass Rock rapids, and I know that he never had even a sliver of doubt, about his 1966 decision to move his small family north.....a calculated adventure to a region of open spaces and thriving forests, tumbling waters and oh so much potential for escaping the workday stresses. When we received the call that Ed had passed away, I looked out upon the snowscape covering over The Bog, and I thanked him, spirit to spirit, for giving me this precious experience of life in this important ruraldom on earth.