SPRING RAIN, ALONE IN THE MIST
One moment, I swear that a canoe is passing somewhere close, as I can so clearly hear the thrust and then ease of the paddle against the current. It’s impossible, of course, because the creeks that dissect the Bog are tiny, and the ponds are shallow, dotted with the hazards of fallen trees and large clumps of earth, matted grasses from some previous flood and erosion.
If you stand here long enough today, in this dimly lit environs, you will swear to have heard footsteps coming toward you along the trail, and thought someone, somewhere close, had whispered your name. In the mist and low light in the thickets, you might see a ghost....a shadowy image wavering between the trees and crossed branches. At other times you will only sense a soft, regular heartbeat within, and the touch of damp cold against your skin. There will be an unsettling silence. Not a trace of wind or sound of even a single raindrop falling onto a leaf, or exploding into the stillness of the tiny black pool of water to your left or right. As the mist becomes heavier, as it blows off the expanse of Muskoka Bay, it will become very haunted in this Bog, as if an English moor, where one might expect, at any moment, to see the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes himself, in hunt of the elusive Hound of the Baskervilles. The mood will change many times today as the rainfall becomes heavier, and this fog moves further inland by late morning. Now it is a feast for the imagination, to be standing here pondering what other mysteries and supernatural events might be revealed.
Even after a half hour of wandering this Bogland, I can still hear the sound of that phantom canoe, its hull trickling the water along its invisible traverse......the water droplets falling from the tip of the paddle blade. I don’t know what has been making these familiar sounds yet I know it can not be what I imagine. It is probably a blocked-up cataract, and a diversion of water down a narrow artery, making this pushing, tinkling sound. With the high ridges of matted grasses, and mounds in the landscape created by old stumps, it’s impossible to see all the little creeks and waterfalls that exist throughout this wetland acreage. It is a haven for anyone with a vivid imagination.
There have been occasions in the last few minutes, when the wind has picked up and sent a spray of icy rain over this ridge, causing the voyeur to button up his coat and pull down the hat that was almost raised in flight. A stronger curl of wind tightens across the lake, and soon it will push up over the rock shoreline, and rush across these pine ridges and unthawing bogland. It will push away the rest of the fog and reveal the brown, barren ground of early spring.
Even in the most adverse weather, there is a splendor to these woods, this lowland, that I cherish with every mortal fibre. Even amidst its dull colorations, and matted grasses and fallen over trees, there is a beauty of life that overpowers shallow observation, and narrow, unimaginative contemplation. It is the rebirth of a season, and it is our own time for resurgence and discovery, and this path will take me from here to there in adventure, around the year, till once more, a winter snow will capture my footprints in its icy mantle.
I feel a tug at my coat sleeve and look to see who beckons. I turn quickly to witness who it is that whispers my name. I will swear to having seen some other watcher in the woods, waft as a mist down a distant path into the basin, and I will tremble a wee bit, about my lonely, vulnerable vigil in this grandly haunted place. I trust that some artist will stumble upon this place one day soon, a poet wandering aimlessly along life’s path, a musician plucking at some stringed instrument, and find this tiny parcel of nature a perfectly enchanted place in which to muse....., to create and be delighted by the convergence of all natural and supernatural qualities and quantities.....as if at the very invitation of C.S. Lewis to explore and taste the fruit not forbidden.

OPEN GROUND, OPEN UNIVERSE, FREE AT LAST
It was a gentle winter season. The fact that there is open ground here, and lots of warming, healing sun, means that the growing season will start at least two weeks ahead of most years. It is a wonderful reprieve from the Canadian winter, which can be brutal and last well past the calendar change, in late March. It feels like we’ve cheated somehow, and that nature must be preparing some wild spring retort to make up for the kindnesses unseasonably bestowed.
I will take this gift and suck the marrow of each and every warm and sparkling day. Even a warm rainy day may find me holed-up in some dry portal overlooking this emerging bogland, so full of sounds from tinkling, invisible run-off water, to the rustling of mice and moles working beneath the matted grasses. This little paradise on earth is my story-book....the natural place on earth that amazes and inspires me daily.....pleases me by simplicity and uncomplicated companionship, which asks nothing from me in return for my observances. I wish more people would take a few moments daily to visit spots like this, to appreciate how nature rises to the call of the season, the strength of the sun, and nurturing of the moist, rich soil of its own history.
Throughout the winter months I have found a few minutes daily to be its observer, a recorder, and its has left an imprint on my soul. It can be a lonely, even threatening place in the midst of a winter storm, a poetic place on a snowy winter’s eve, a remarkable place when the sunrise sparkles in those first few moments reflecting off the newly fallen snow,..... and a peaceful, wonderful solitude for contemplation, when the pace of modern life becomes an unhealthy burden. On a beautiful sunny day as this, it is as much a contradictory place,.... as it is both peaceful and a sanctuary for the weary, yet it possesses a powerful aura of regeneration and rebirth, that reminds the soul how dependent and lowly it is in the grand scheme. It kinship to the heart-broken, the depressed, the life-weary, restores good faith in the relevance of all life....the coil of seconds, minutes, hours and days spinning in this cycle and universality of mortal existence. I can experience fear and trembling, as might a sage watcher, a bard, looking out upon this huge transition of life-force, and at the same time allow myself the liberty of spiritual freedom, fearing not the consequence of being in the path of a ravenous nature, bursting at the seams to touch the sun. It is at times, like watching a huge, unwieldy creature rising up from the muck of pre-history, and being unsure whether it will be kindly to the observer, or devour the intruder as a means of sustenance. Just as one shields from the storm-front thundering over this peaceful place, there is that subtle reminder about survival of the fittest. Is this watcher in the woods strong and resourceful enough to keep step with nature’s progress? Might I perish as a bystander, in this sudden storm, a product of this same nature that has so graciously cradled me against this sun drenched tree? Yes it might well do this. I could be drawn up into the vortex of rotating wind and spit out like a seed down onto a far away neighborhood, where my body will imprint for awhile, be written about by some on-call reporter, and return to dust and soil as is pre-determined and non-negotiable. One must then rely on the wits nature implanted in the mortal, mental capacity, of utilizing logic and reason, as peaked by sensory perception....the instinct to seek cover in the event of storm and flood.....and trust that our instincts are in rhythm with the rigors of the impending situation. In the meantime, we watch and absorb the world around us, honing survival skills.
It is a seductive aura that lures me deeper each day, and keeps me here longer and longer, away from my tasks.....eroding my serious side and flourishing the ambition and nordic Thule for endless adventure, quite beyond my mortal means. It is the fatal attraction, a heartfelt allure to wander to the ends of the earth, because it feels so naturally intended. Yet I bask here in the afternoon sun thinking about exploration and investigation, preferring instead, at this moment, to allow my senses to invigorate as they see fit, while body rests against this old pine, contoured to the shape of my back....in the perfect place above the Bog to hear, feel, and see this concert-in-regalia perform.....to my peril or my profit, I can not tell.
Soon there will be the spring storms that pound down over the open waters of Georgian Bay, and our lakes here in South Muskoka, and many more of these leaning old birches will be toppled by the wind. The rain will bring stronger greens and deeper, broader roots to hold these grasses tight to the earth. It will turn lush and cool in the summer heat, and I will again come for a daily respite, to wander through the outstretched ferns and berried shrubs that thrive upon the embankment above the bog. There will be wind storms and dry spells, and humid periods that will keep us with fan and beverage on overhanging decks; and there will be pleasant days of moderate temperature, when the footfall on this path will be of the young and old, travellers from here to there, with a desire to see the land as if it was a theater, the actors, the creatures, the moose, deer, bear and squirrels that live in this moor beside the lake,..... and all will be contented in the seasons of the year.....until of course, they are inconvenienced by the sting in the air from December winds again, and the driving snow of a future January. Ah, what pleasure there is in recounting the days of our seasons, when there is so much to love and loathe, celebrate and tolerate, but be inspired by, as it is the mirror of life itself we ought better to know.

MARCH RAINS
This is the first overcast day of the past week. Maybe even a little longer. With the dull gray canopy of cloud will soon come the forecasted deluge, to wash away the surviving mantle of compromised, dirty snow. Walking along the trail with a light rain falling, isn’t a hardship to any one with a passion for the out of doors. It is a most quiet and soothing place at this time of the year, as most folks are either at their professions, or still huddled by the crackling hearth, leaving this place a splendid solitude for daydreamers like me.
The shallow mist over the Bog, and the gentle rainfall gives an old world, primeval aura, quite removed from the hustling of urbanity at its door. This is a most isolating time of year, and those who suffer from depression would undoubtedly choose to bypass it altogether, as they might wish away the often gloomy month of November. It’s impossible for me to be disenchanted whatsoever, at this conclusion of one season and rebirth of another. To see these ridges of open, muddy ground, is entirely uplifting, and it won’t be long now until the shoots of plant life burst through the soil, to meet the warmer, more promising days of April.
All around me now are the sounds of transition. A few weeks ago I stood on this same spot and listened for some time, to the heavy, water-logged snow hitting these evergreens, and feeling as if spring was a long way off. Now this solitude is of a different character. A landscape emerging from its entombment over the past months, ready to absorb the life-restoring March rains. What a beautiful respite this is, not just in the more inviting day-glow and the warm temperature but in the midst of a wonderful solitude, to see first hand the spring melt in its final hours. Now a barren, lonely place upon casual glance, it is so full of life sounds as to be deafening to the sensitive ear. The veil of mist protects the feeding deer, clustered on the ridge to my left, and several wild turkeys are ruffling up the snow a short distance to the right, and they show no interest in the watcher’s morning vigil.
We moved to Muskoka in the spring of 1966. It was my first spring in the hinterland. It was the time of year that was always most profound to me as a child, as it meant I could spend more time outside, and being free to wander about always translated into such amazing adventures. My adventures are more tame these days, and I confess to being more of an observer than a participant. Wandering this short path into the bogland contents me quite effectively, after a long stint at this keyboard for example. Each time I’m out here, I see something else that begs a closer look and lengthy study.....all excuses to stay out longer and shirk work as a matter of responsibility. I don’t want to miss anything about this emerging spring upon a retiring, weary old winter. The fact that water has now found a weakness in the soul of my boots, is less relevant than the brush with spirit, that wafts hauntingly with the mist, over this modest pinery of South Muskoka.
In springs of yore, my childhood rambles up the creeks and spring ponds, kept the skin of my feet wrinkled for two months, and my mother in heartache......she knew every one of the diseases I would get by having wet feet. She warned me that if my feet stayed wet, I’d actually begin to take root, and then I’d be in big trouble.
As I’ve wondered before, out here amidst this splendid scene, what would be so wrong should I suddenly take root today, and latch onto The Bog in a more profound way as a truly legitimate Watcher in the Woods.

THE WOES OF AN EARLY SPRING
You would indeed be lucky to find one person who thinks like me. To suggest that winter is a partner to revere. A partner who has a character of grinding steel and arctic fist, clenched and braced for a knock-out strike. It’s unthinkable to suggest the winter this year, has been unfairly gentle. How dare I unsettle the earthly spirits of inner nature, suggesting she has let us off to easily, from a burden we are so used to in this clime of hinterland.
Yet amongst the sage oldtimers, who still care to watch and predict the weather, there is a price to pay for a weak winter and an early spring. History has so informed us, should we care to study past records, that whenever such a winter occurs, and spring buds and flowers emerge before their time, a recoil of winter snaps across the landscape, to make us pay for sloppy indifference. Like kicking snow into the face of a bully, there is a dire consequence.
It is so incredible to see this sunscape, rich and golden, making long black silhouettes through the woodlands, like retreating soldiers after a battle bravely fought. It is a heaven on earth, and the sun beats down on our tired bodies, and restores comfort and pleasure, revitalizing our will to push harder and further in mortal quest. Yet be warned, the old man grumbles in verse, about the balances of nature yet to restore, winter to winter, spring to spring; a season done no sooner or later, planting to harvest, harvest to planting.
We will be reminded of wicked spring storms that buried us in snow not so many years ago. The ice that left the lakes in late May, and the Easter Parades that had bunnies covered in snow. These watchers of the weather, chortle to themselves, about snowflurries in June, and frosts in early July. The diminished winter still coils away, tight into herself, as if planning for something more spectacular, a storm better stated, to force us indoors again, huddled to the hearth.
I have heard many of these stories from folks who had experienced many harsh and long winters, and been beaten down by the sudden outbursts of a winter thought defeated.
I listen for the sound of a wind twisting over the lake. Now I only hear the plaintive cries of the gulls over a bit of open lake. Might it be that the storm predicted, for later this week, will damn us for the rest of a reclaimed March? Just when the bare ground of old earth shows along the embankment of this Bog, it might soon be iced-over in a cruel portrait of nature’s revenge. Such is the artistry of a season scorned. Such is the misery of mortal folly, that we could naively believe, as fact, history won’t repeat.

MARCH ARRIVED WITH THE GENTLENESS OF A LAMB
One would be forgiven today, for wandering aimlessly beneath this universal, cloudless, blue canopy of late winter sky. After the dusting of snow over the past few days, this is one of those temptations the watcher in the woods can not resist. The prognosticators are already announcing a particularly early spring, for our region of Ontario, and few of us care to diminish their soothsaying, and have blind trust they’ve picked up their information from natural signs, not simply wishful, fraudulent intent. Might there be profit in good news?
It is true than I can easily become lost in this ethereal, poetic contemplation, taking these crunching steps out into the woods. I can easily take myself away from the work-a-day world, and lose myself in the merging of wonderland and actuality, where dreamers find their ecstasy, but realists measure it all proportionally. Until that is, they find themselves imagining things, as if this portal within nature, even in real terms, has unspecified enchantments that need to be investigated. I’ve always been a realist with an annoying penchant for bending the hard and fast, usurping the logical, and straightforward, just to get a better view.
Escaping here this afternoon at times seems irresponsible, when I think of the many capitalist-chasing projects awaiting my attention with our family business. Yet I know in my heart, that whatever time I steal here now, restoring my heart and soul in such a tranquil spot, will return to me in unfettered, plentiful ambition later on, when the sun goes down and chores are yet to complete. My wife often wonders aloud if I shouldn’t have been a vagabond instead, a hobo, riding the rails to places unknown. I know she’s kidding yet strangely I think about this wanderlust myself, and whether in another life, I was some stalwart navigator racing the high seas, or an adventurer challenging bush, prairie and mountain-side toward some unspecified discovery. We all wonder, from time to time, what we did in a previous existence, if there was one at all. Why do we quest? What truths do we look for, that will make us enlightened. Each of us has a different reason, I think, yet sometimes we cross paths, and wonder silently, if fate has intervened.
Out on this bogside, I cherish being without phone or electronic messenger of any kind, and only a few feet along this path, the frustrations of the day become so insignificant and untimely; a nuisance I can do without......just as a hobo might relate of a profession once that was too demanding and confining. My open rail is this keyboard , when I finally return to my office, overlooking the woodlands......it is no trouble at all then, to settle in this too low chair, at this cluttered, note-posted desk, and feel such excitement about my walk, and what I had seen while outside. It doesn’t have to be a profound experience, in order for me to be able to write again. Rather it has to be the refresher in my day, reminding me that there is nothing at all more important in the world, than this relationship with our nature. It is at our center, our core, and we would subtly diminish to an unremarkable dust without its interplay and cycle, yet our arrogance toward it, means we fail within, what we consider, the vast accomplishments of adaptive mankind.
As I bask in the brilliant light, engulfing this hollow of landscape, above Muskoka Bay, it is impossible to feel removed from the cycle of days, the seasons, this evolution of landscape and atmosphere, so vibrantly electric and powerful. And when I hear the dull, thudding rumble of the earth movers this spring, I will tremble in soul, to think of a place like this, being bulldozed in the name of progress. The painful etching of the urban mantra that crackles with its own inherent horror.... "expansion for the prosperity of us all!" It is then that I wish a great sweeping storm would thunder overhead, and in a great calamity, strike hard against the folly of presumed self-divinity..... warn that desecration to a beautiful world, for the sake of profit, is the work of the false prophet, who cares not for survival of mankind or the environment, but that its exploitations be plentiful and self satisfying. It could only be the damnation of greed that would consume the qualities of earth that sustain us, the hopeless gamble that the alchemy of commerce, will arrive like a thundering cavalry, to save us from our excesses in the end.
My wife asked me one day, after she found me leaning against a sunny tree, while looking out over The Bog quite dreamily, "Are you trying to take root?" I thought about it for several moments, without answering, and with a wee wink of the eye, suggested something like, "Wouldn’t that be something. My fortune however, as has proven many times in the past, would herald the man with the chainsaw to find me all plump and prime, and set about to make me into a window sill or a two by four.....a hockey stick or a bit of flooring in a bathroom.
It is a day with endless possibilities. A day for contemplation and self discovery. It’s a day for youngsters to make the best of the remaining snow, slide on the puddle-ice, and toss a few poorly directed snowballs at innocent bystanders. It’s a day to stay outdoors, bask awhile in some portal away from the still chilled air. And it’s a time to admire nature for what it is......a survivor, a nurturer, a soul-mate, a temptress and an enforcer. It is truth personified. Reality actualized. The contradiction between reality and the supernatural, the poet and the painter, the explorer and the wanderer, and all the mutual satisfaction in between.
We are free to take root if we choose.