WATCHER IN THE WOODS - A NEW YEAR AND MANY ASPIRATIONS

I watched some kids building a fort, in the woods this autumn, and thought it was nice they were actually playing outdoors for a change. Although we have quite a few youngsters in our neighborhood, usually you only see them coming and going from home to the school bus pick-up, and reverse in the afternoon but only occasionally after that......even during weekends, holidays and during the summer months. I do see them whip by on skateboards and bikes, and a few times in groups headed up town here in Gravenhurst, but as far as playing outdoors......hiking through these woods, not very often. Building this fort from spare items around their home(s) was at least getting these kids away from television and video games out into nature. There’s a troubling disconnect these days with modern living and child rearing, and immersion in the hinterland. Not happening like it should.

Both my wife and I had great and enduring associations with nature, growing up in respective areas of Muskoka. Suzanne grew up in beautiful Windermere, on Lake Rosseau, where they had both a cottage and home, a business on the lake, and a lot of nature surrounding each location. She was always trekking through the forests and pastures in the area, when not paddling along the shoreline in her favorite canoe. I grew up a little more urban than she did, first in Burlington, where I called a ravine with a creek my stomping ground, and then in Bracebridge, where Bamford’s Woods and The Grove were my hangouts from the bustle of town life and times. My life was directly hinged to the welfare and dynamic of these treed, natural places. In Bracebridge we didn’t have an abundance of nearby parks, especially in the Hunt’s Hill area of town, and having these tiny but thriving woodlots provided daily respites, the benefits I find difficult to explain simply. I could retreat to the woods fed-up and angry with the toll of the summer heat and responsibility, and within minutes of entering that beautiful forest, feel as if I’d crossed over to a soothing eternity. My mother Merle always new where to find me, that’s for sure. Suzanne and I have always found generous quantities of inspiration from nature, as we do today, here at Birch Hollow, our home adjacent to the beautiful “Bog,” we nearly lost several years ago in a development square-off with the Town of Gravenhurst.......wishing to sell off lots from the highly significant urban greenbelt. We won. Common sense won.

Seeing youngsters playing in the woods is reminiscent and encouraging, and it is critical to the overall appreciation of undeveloped areas in the urban scheme of the future. If future developers and investors themselves, never appreciated those gentle, spiritful liaisons with nature, growing up, and wouldn’t gladly choose a canoe outing over a weekend of video games in the recreation room, then how will they treat conservation issues with the municipalities they intend on transforming. I have met many of these folks who had never paddled a canoe, or spent more than a few days of their lives camping or being on outdoor adventures, beyond what school provided. These folks, in my humble opinion, will be crappy stewards of green places like The Bog, in the future. There idea and aspirations of civilization now, seems to be influenced more by the nuances of the urban jungle fore than outdoor living.

There isn’t a day that goes by, that I don’t wind-up wandering these few beautiful acres of snow and evergreen, leaning old birch trees and venerable maples, that have been here longer than this urban development. I see and hear things, of natural origin, each time I visit, and get real human joy knowing it is a sanctuary to all kinds of critters, from snakes and frogs, to deer and owls, the occasional passing moose, bear, racoons, hawks and weasels to name a few. You can hear the soothing trickle of some tiny crystalline waterfall, somewhere down in the snow-covered bog, and catch storied creaking of the “talking tree,” on the top of the hillside that I’ve been acknowledging, as such, for more than a decade. It is as much my Walden, as Walden Pond was to the good Mr. Thoreau, and my respect for it is shown daily, when I visit and celebrate the life within. So to see this modest but healthy immersion into the woodlands, of our neighborhood, is encouraging, and reminds me of the many forts I built in my youth, important portals to a life I wanted to explore.

Today began dull with a trace of snow flurries spiraling down over The Bog. By noon the sun was beating down on this white and green landscape, and it was wonderful to stand against the rail of the porch, and consume the nectar of a brand new year. I wish every one who races past here, in the harried mission from here to there and back, would pause, even for a moment.....possibly while picking up the mail, to pay some attention to the picturesque embrace of this special place. The future, afterall, depends on their interest in its conservation. I’m not at all confident of this outcome, as reality shows, the most attention The Bog gets these days from neighborhood adults, comes when they have some yard debris they wish to dispose of, and opt not to pay a dumping fee at the local landfill site. It’s true. I wish it wasn’t.

It always discourages us a bit, when a walk through the woods nets us a half bag of strewn garbage, pop cans, beer bottles, paper and plastic cast-offs from young and old. We’ve been picking it all up for years, and I expect many more to come. We are volunteer stewards and we take our role seriously.

We need to do more in schools, and within the community, to teach stewardship of all our precious resources. Right now, I’m just tickled to have kids roaming the woods the way they’re supposed to......and that is a start to a possible life-long relationship with the wild places that remain. The wild places we need preserved, in order to survive ourselves.

Just now two squirrels have raced branch to branch, disturbing the routine of some large crows, and chickadees flit about through the bare branches.....while blue jays call and a hawk circles overhead, and the sunlight makes this such a dynamic scene of profound light and shadow......that might have caught the attention of landscape artists like Tom Thomson, or A.Y. Jackson, as a scene to capture for posterity. A Canadian scene. One we are familiar with, and are beckoned to explore. And responsible for preserving for the benefit of future generations.

Have a wonderful year.

WALDEN AND MUSKOKA, WHERE ONE LOSES PACE BUT GAINS HEART

I watch over The Bog hourly these days of emerging winter.....these enthralling blustery hours that etch frost onto my window pane, and slap tree limbs against the house in those ferocious, unpredictable gusts that bellow from the churning bay, and rip over the wooded hillside, tearing away leaning old birches that Robert Frost found so dimensionally poetic. It is a scene that one moment can inspire fear and trembling, and in another, a sense of inevitability, such that I could see myself surrendering to gale force, and being blown into a winter oblivion. I challenge not, the will of God, of nature, but do suspect failings in the structure of wood and shingles that keep me warm and dry at this precarious moment.

At times the sun pokes out and cascades through the two panes of glass that protect me from the serious cold.....and for awhile I bask, in reward, stopping this mad typing in order to enjoy a respite from creativity......which heaven knows can suck the life out of the most fit and ambitious author if left to run free. Then suddenly the good graces of clear sky diminish and it all becomes very dark and forboding, as if a storm-front has just then announced its intention, to re-create the order of things into a mosaic chaos......which in a strange way compels me to watch closely as this day becomes more interesting with golden light and creeping shadow, vestiges of good and evil.

It might prevail again soon, a settling calm, to allow the sun another opening in the canopy of December cloud, to print brightly upon this old cluttered desk.....of which I mire down in confusion, when not a humble, silent victim of my own freedom. Questing in search of the insightful words to lead myself in memory, down those narrow, winding forest paths I have travelled in this life.....or it could well brighten up evermore, as snow begins to tumble down, and be dashed against this same window pane, affording me a wreathed view of this precious lowland. I will be able to feel the vibration of the wind, if it should dominate this landscape, as it shakes the house awake, and sense the loose grip I have on secure items, should this glass ever break, and expose me to these rigorous, unclenching elements. I’m not sure how I would react if one day, this speculation of doom upon Birch Hollow, should occur in just this fashion, when wind and determination of storm-fist might transform this cabin to rubble, and send me flying forth to settle, unceremoniously in some other locale. In flight might I find a split second to ponder, or rather be delirious to the situation as a result of sudden shock? Me thinks the voyeur would capture the moments for posterity......and then, disheveled, but eager, look for the last pencil and paper on earth to make copious notes, about that most recent and precious experience of survival of the fittest. Unless of course, I don’t survive and then the chapter ends rather abruptly I’m afraid.

For many years now, I have sat in this same spot on winter afternoons, to benefit from a most beautiful dominion, this Muskoka, offering the writer so many different moods and distractions from normal course. Even if it is a visitor ambling up the lane, or a vehicle rattling down the road, every hour is a chapter filled with small but significant occurrences that in their own way represent a punctuation I might not have used otherwise; to paint the scene into a more realistic, navigable landscape. There is more here in this Walden of mine than trees and tiny crystalline cataracts, snow drifts and strange anomalies of all nature. While some might think it odd and a misspent resource of time and effort, to sit here and watch out over a run-of-the-mill lowland in a region known for its bogs and swamps, I might argue that my own connection here is not on a for-profit efficiency but instead, a healthful feeding period of heart and soul. It is this kind of beautiful, dynamic place on the landscape, I find restorative when other functions of lifestyle prove exhausting and depressing. There is no judgement here, no acceptable way to interpret the scene or precise protocol for finishing work. I am under no pressure to produce for any hounding editor and there is no financial promoter demanding chapters for money. While there have been many occasions when I have been forced to work on a writing-to-survive basis, I listen now to the common, basic protocol of sensible proportion and human satisfaction. I wrote for many years without the least contentment and virtually no satisfaction at the end of a work week, other than having felt a wee flicker of hope when my byline topped a story I was particularly proud of.......and many of my writing contemporaries at the time felt the same.

My biggest distress was that, in the evening, when I should have wanted to write for myself, the rigors and frustrations of the day drained all enthusiasm. When I sit here and watch this beautiful world transform in the prevailing weather, I am enthralled to be a witness. There is a peacefulness I can’t quite explain, an ethereal adventure that gives much more meaning to the vigil than what the written page contains in ink. I can’t expect that those who read these pages will be able to recreate what I have experienced, or imagined, interpreting the change of seasons, the evolution of weeks, days and hours into minutes of joyous existence. While some find exhilaration in physical adventures and impending danger, I find it in this ghost hunt for wayward spirits, who will lead me to that elusive truth we both fear yet celebrate as clear vision, and honesty about the meaning of life.

It is late afternoon now, and I must face the necessity of travel.....and the fuss of adorning myself to fend against the bitter winter rattling eerily at this window pane, as if something beyond is trying to get my attention. I shall trundle off down the road and feel as robust as humanly possible for a man of my vintage, having the passion stirring within, to once again return to my office, and rejoin quiet contemplation with all that nature can afford the eager voyeur.

WALDEN IN MUSKOKA MY RETREAT

It’s hard to explain to folks who don’t write, paint or wax poetic, how important it is to have a ready source of inspiration. Like legendary Canadian artist, Tom Thomson, I face a shortfall of inspiration when everything is green and fulfilled. While this isn’t to suggest, as a human being, I’m not enthralled about the woodlands of Muskoka in the spring and summer, it’s the case that autumn and winter are more profoundly diverse and unpredictable. I’ve been a landscape writer all my professional life, and the seasons have been a huge influence on when I write and what I write about. As Thomson complained that Algonquin was too green and plain in the late spring and summer, I too have issues with contrast. As a writer. Not as a path-wandering admirer of nature. I could live in these woods permanently. It’s just that as a creator, I find writing in the midst of an autumn storm, or a winter gale, is so much more rough and jagged around the edges, so many more things happening around the homestead, such as trees banging against the side of the house, hitting the glass pane of my office window.....there are wind-sounds that remind one of the Call of the Wild and inspire the imagination to incorporate ghosts and wee beasties that thrive in such tumultuous times.

My trips into this beautiful Bog I have recently come to call “Walden,” in respect to Thoreau’s own Walden Pond, are fantastic at this time of the year, as the frost has begun painting the hardwood leaves, and the wind has started to tear them away, spiraling them back to earth, to be trodden down by my intrusive travels each day. It is all so amazing. Even as these leaves fall and the solemn days of late fall evolve upon the landscape, it becomes haunting in a passionate, engaging way. We look upon the demise of one season as the birth of another.

I have now just decided it is time to travel the path this morning, long overdue from a walk with the dog before sunrise. I trust I will return with a heightened sense of discovery, as it is seldom I arrive back at this doorstep without something new and exciting to bestow upon you.

WALDEN - MY TIME TO WRITE

I have never written well or often in the summer months. Maybe I’m a little like Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, who enjoyed painting Algonquin scenes from the fall to the spring but found the summer months too green, and without the dramatic contrasts he most admired about the lakeland vista.

I don’t enjoy the heat and humidity and I only own one small fan that is more annoying than refreshing. I prefer being outdoors, perched lazily on the lakeshore, or sitting comfortably beneath one of my wonderful maples in our homestead forest. This year the shade didn’t help relieve much more than the direct sunlight, as the humidity was impossible to escape. I did what they do in a lot of tropical countries, and got my work done around the property before late morning, when the temperature and closeness began to rise. I’d venture into the Bog with my mate Bosko, my canine companion, and we’d take a slow walk to nowhere in particular. It always seemed cooler down on the level of the marsh grasses and deep fern cover, and while the dog rolled on the hard-packed path, I’d satisfy myself by leaning up against the tree that has been my stalwart support for the past 20 years, its curvature perfect for my aching back. Dog and human spent a lot of time pondering this summer.....when would the heat end, and “I can’t wait for the chill of nightfall.”

It was one of the hardest working summers in recent memory, despite the hot climate, as there were many projects of homestead repair that simply couldn’t wait for completion. Most often the summer is when my wife (a teacher) and I, set out on daily antique hunts, searching for those evasive pieces to offer our customers......who have long known us in the profession, as folks who can come up with unusual, unique and even strange art pieces and primitives. This summer, we simply had to put it all on hold, except for travels locally. We’re pretty happy about improvements here, and new shelving to hold our thousands of books. Around here, moving one table or buffet, can displace about a thousand items on and within, and surrounding, so considering we moved about one hundred pieces of furniture at Birch Hollow, in the past two months, you must surely be able to appreciate the widespread chagrin of being obsessive collectors. We were the poster kids for a hoarding reality show.

As a writer, my biggest problem has been keeping old clippings, manuscripts and reference material. I’ve had to bring this volume down considerably, in order to have any place to sit and work in my office. I’ve even gotten rid of my small collection of old manual typewriters that I used up until a few years ago, before my son Robert got me to switch to the computer keyboard. Now he uses the old manuals in his recording studio, to get those historic sounds mixed with contemporary music creations by string and drum. What used to be my vehicle to creation, is now a sound effect device. Well, glad it could be of some use in this era of high tech everything.

I have found the Bog very peaceful this summer season, and I have very much needed it to ease the inner turmoil of change. I like commonplace, and even the change of the chair I sit in daily, is enough to throw me off my stride for a couple of weeks. I’ve had a plethora of new chairs around here, and much more, so when things have gotten too crazy for an oldtimer, ....well, I retreat, sometimes often........where my wife and curious neighours can find me standing out on the brink of the Bog, listening to the overhead owls and the distant loons, and the gentle wash of wind through the tall grass and ferns. These sojourns have been enough to soothe the savage beast within. Actually, it wasn’t all that savage, just disenfranchised from that stuffy, stale old way of living, my wife was determined to revamp. She was quite right, and I now very much enjoy the additional space and ease of movement, without fearing an askew stack of books may, at the slightest nudge, domino wildly across the parlor.

I will attempt to write more this autumn season, which by tradition, has always been my most creative time of year. I need my Walden, away from all this work and stuff.

OF CONTEMPLATION AND PHILOSOPHY
At a time when Muskoka has been transformed into a safer haven, for the most powerful leaders on earth, it’s crossed my mind several times in the past six months of constant media scrutiny, criticism and debate, whether or not the dignitaries to our beautiful region on earth, will have any gentle time for contemplation and enjoyment of the hinterland environs during their brief stay.
From what I understand of their 24 hour or so, lodging in Muskoka, the answer is probably no, as there are far too many security impositions and intrusions, for anyone, citizens and dignitaries alike, to actually enjoy the very nature of Muskoka, that was the allure for the summit in the first place.
I can’t help but feel this is the biggest shortfall of the whole international event. Our world is such a precarious, dangerous place that we can’t even allow nature to intrude upon the business of world politics. Instead we finance a "Fake Lake" in Toronto, to impress the media, many who won’t be able to attend the actual Muskoka summit. There’s a bigger and better looking lake now at the base of my lane from the rainfall of a few hours earlier, and it’s a genuine Muskoka resource that I probably could paddle.....and it didn’t cost me more than a few coins of property tax. After the Muskoka immersion, these government representatives, will have only slightly touched on one of the most important global issues.....the environment that is so close yet so strategically and safely removed from the actuality of the magnificent location. As for Muskoka playing host, well, many important opportunities have been missed. The only thing that could have been further imposed, was a tinted glass dome over the entire resort community.
Instead for the money invested, it should have included a woodland hike, a canoe paddle at sunrise, a swim in a beautiful lake, and the chance to sit out on a dock at sunset, and see what Tom Thomson witnessed of a haunted lakeland in Canada.
I have already, this morning, seen and experienced more of Muskoka’s natural resources, than will be enjoyed by our international guests, in the northern climes of the district. First thing, I got a soaker in a puddle, that had formed on a path in The Bog,.....the result of heavy rain last evening, and I had a little slide down a small embankment when Bosko the dog took off after a squirrel, dragging me behind. I felt the chilled water droplets on my back when the wind blew the huge overhead maple leaves that held storm residue. I saw the cool mist drifting across The Bog at sunrise, and watched as several deer ambled across the path on the other side of the hollow. I enjoyed the gentleness of a less-humid morning in South Muskoka, and the shrill call of the Loon from somewhere near the lake shore; it was the kind of haunting that makes you think about life and meaning, and the precious observations and insights of all the country philosophers over this grand world, throughout history, who have been inspired by such wondrous places, such sanctuary, such joy in the midst of life’s complex and befuddling cycle.
While the iron clenched security plans, hands and weaponry that ensure our guests will be safe in our region, give us all a sense of a general insecurity about the world’s future, I will celebrate nature on their behalf......by immersing myself for work and pleasure in the environs of this beautiful region, because its importance to the soul outweighs all else in this mortal coil.
This is my celebration of Muskoka. It’s not one bit different than the respect I have always possessed for the nature around us......that so many ignore on purpose, until that is, our folly in its destruction makes us all the victims of neglect.
It doesn’t really bother me to be called "naive" or "unrealistic," because whether I am, or not, nature is our keeper, and that is fact. We don’t always appreciate this, especially when we’re more concerned about the re-creation of nature, for the photo-ops, and good publicity, than its welfare as a whole......which is always a lagging consideration in a world consumed by everything else.

WORK AND MY WALDEN WALKS
Most recently I have been terribly pre-occupied with work, and then there was a flood here at Birch Hollow, when a pin-prick hole developed in a pipe, leading from the hot water heater, causing a book, art and paper collector a " fit of temporary insanity," getting everything away from the wave of nice hot water. Fortunately it happened at a time when all our family members were preparing for bed, and we caught it before there was too much damage. Even in a short period of time, most of the floor was soaked by this tiny spray of water. It has taken almost two weeks to dry out.
On top of this I opted to help a fellow historian edit a book of stories, inspired by his own Muskoka homestead, where he and family have reverted to simpler times, and lesser conveniences that we possess at Birch Hollow. They don’t have water taps as such, but they do have a pump handle. And they don’t have electricity, which by today’s standard in Canada, is pretty much unheard of, unless you happen to be a trapper or prospector in the far north.
His interesting book is a mix of fact and fiction but the background of both is the "roughing it in the bush," chronicle of a new century. While I have great admiration for these hardy souls, when I read the story collection, I can’t help clenching my teeth about all the dire consequences they face daily, with bear and moose, frozen water and isolation. Of course, having suffered greatly from a pin prick in a water line, I’m probably a terrible candidate for the complete homestead lifestyle. Of course, as my colleague notes so eloquently, throughout the book, the environmental joy far outweighs any disadvantage. I agree whole heartedly. It must be marvelous waking up each morning, and staring out at a beautiful pine forest and blue sky, and not hear the sound of earth movers and jack-hammers, too familiar and intrusive in my urban world.
I live more like Thoreau, I suppose, than my friend, because I’m always in close proximity to civilization’s new age conveniences. Thoreau’s sister, I believe, used to deliver fresh baked goods from the family kitchen, out to his humble cabin on the shore of the legendary Walden Pond. I don’t have a cabin over in The Bog, across the lane from our house, but I’ve got plenty of cookies nearby to fuel my latest hike through the pinery.
I haven’t edited a book in awhile, and I’m pretty rusty. As the editor of the former Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, in the 1980's, I used to work my way through a mountain of hard copy (paper submissions) every week, and I resorted to the non-computer way of handling my latest editing challenge.....preferring instead to have a real manuscript in front of me, versus staring for hours on end, at a wavering computer screen. I’m not sure if my author friend will appreciate these pioneering contributions to his new book. Maybe he won’t be able to read my edit marks, which were passed down through decades of newspaper tradition. The scribbled-on pages actually looked like a wee bit of folk art from the golden years of the community press.
I talked with the author about nature, the other day, and wondered if he felt the same about it all, as when he originally planned his exile into the hinterland. I questioned whether he paid attention to those magnificent sunrises and sunsets, the first winter snow upon cedar boughs, and the first wildflowers of the spring, with the innocence of discovery he had commenced homesteading in the first place. He was admittedly surprised I would ask that question. As I venture into the forest daily for my own respite, I can return later to this office above The Bog, and sit in a comfortable office and write away in relative comfort. Of course I don’t exclude the fact that some time in the day, a water pipe might spring a leak, or I’ll need to replace a board or two on the back deck, or need to improve the drainage of rain water away from the building’s foundation. These are standard to any home owner. But I believe my life as a wanderer and a writer is easier, in many ways, than the survivalist who has to deal with life threatening issues from the get-go each day, based on what he doesn’t possess. As for a response about his appreciation for nature, it was a rigorous rebuttal, that in fact, his was an intense relationship based on his own appreciation of sanctuary, environmental resources, and a farmstead heritage, and the relationship with each sunrise, sunset, each season and every natural event, was the patina of lifestyle. I was the one separated from immersion by choice of convenience. I wasn’t living in a rustic cabin on the moor. I was living in climate controlled luxury on the knoll above nature, in his eyes and opinion. He wasn’t wrong.
Editing through the book was an adventure that for a few days, did keep me tied to my office, yet I have thought about his observations about nature as a close companion, in my recent hiatus periods out, looking affectionately over The Bog.....and I do think some philosophy has rubbed off.....and I’m always eager to find new insight, and a clearer way to look at something that has perplexed me. I thanked him for letting me have a week peak at his tome, and the chance to get another opinion on our precious nature.

WALDEN FOR ME - LET BUSINESS BE
As I noted recently, my aimless, enjoyable wandering through the Muskoka woods, had been unceremoniously interrupted by the reality..... commerce has its place....just as the forest and bog holds me spellbound, our business accountant occasionally gets on her high-horse and demands that I work for the luxuries (of wandering) I enjoy.
Over the past two months, business has been trumping just about everything else, and while it has been very much profitable and rewarding, as it has involved my passionate relationship with antiques and heritage items, all work and little play has been difficult to tolerate.....especially with beautiful weather and a lovely forest beckoning. I am so clearly reminded of the words written by David Grayson in his well known book, "Adventures in Contentment," where in his early days of "back to the farmstead" living, having left the urban stresses behind, he couldn’t seem to cast off the necessity of working long hours, being in a hurry to get things done, and to always have nice straight furrows at the end of plowing. Until one day, wiping sweat from his brow, he looked up at the beautiful valley sprawling out to the horizon, and was instantly amazed at what he had been missing about country life.....and life values generally. He had been so jaded by urban habits and necessity, that even in the hinterland, he was living the urban lifestyle of hurried pace, and reckless avoidance of real life and health issues.
I tried to explain this to my life partner, who is also my accountant, and she balked at the suggestion she is a taskmaster....but did agree that it was simply necessary to employ the cycle of economy, unless of course, one wanted to starve and be cast out of our present homestead by the fine folks who loaned us money in trust.
I have joyfully embraced the Muskoka woodlands again, this time having pacified the bean-counter, that our business is deserving the same attention as these forest inhabitants, trees and ferns and squirrels and well, you know. I’m just a little more determined now to fit it all in this remaining spring-time, before winter puts me closer to work than play.