OUR WALDEN IN THE DEEP OF WINTER
Over the past two days Muskoka has been graced, enchanted and so grandly illuminated by a most soothing brightness, the sunglow warmly bathing this little rise of topography above the hollow of "The Bog." After many days of bitter cold and an unrelenting wind, sculpting the snow into deep drifts throughout the lowland, it was so pleasant to just stand for a moment, in this restorative glow......still feeling the chill of winter but not the bleakness of mid January.
Today has already shown a rigorous return to winter with blowing snow and a colder snap to the wind. There won’t be much melting today. Yet what an interesting collection of days to commence 2010. There’s a pronounced solitude this morning that invites the explorer to wander the woodlands. A calm prevails despite the spirals of snow that touch down like whirlwinds, and then disappear as suddenly as they arrive like ghosts of the haunted moor. The voyeur will not be in any discomfort out on this wind-etched ridge, as the temperature is not yet low enough to sting the skin. By later this afternoon, we are warned the climate is supposed to change drastically, and we will all need to beware of exposed skin and the danger of frostbite. Now it is just a magnificent sojourn from the busy day.....a chance afforded by path and nature to observe mid-winter in the snow-laden woods of South Muskoka.
I have had very few walks in the woods these past few weeks, as our family has tended the needs of my father who suffered a debilitating stroke on the 15th of December. He has the same name as this writer, the name also of my grandfather, Edward John Currie, known simply as "Ted." It was my father who first introduced me to the District of Muskoka, on a trip to Bruce Lake in 1965. He liked the region so much, we moved here less than a year later. In the late winter of 1966, I officially became a resident of Bracebridge, Ontario. It was my paradise almost immediately.....once I shook of my urban barnacles, and from an early age I began writing about our adoptive home-district. Despite many set-backs staying employed in the hinterland region of Ontario, my father vowed we would stay in this amazingly beautiful area, even if it demanded extreme compromise and compliance with the jobs available. I think he actually worked a short time as a waiter in a local tavern, before landing a job in his own field of expertise.....the lumber industry, where he was employed until retirement. It wasn’t easy and money in those first ten years, was pretty thin.....just enough to cover food, shelter and not much else. But then our vacations were really affordable. Afterall, we were residing year-round in one of Canada’s historic vacation retreats, well known since the mid 1800's. I had forests, rivers and lakes surrounding me, and for a lad who always had wanderlust coursing through his veins, it was pretty much a dream life. While it wasn’t easy for a transplanted urban kid to fit in, at the local public school, a few rough patches weren’t enough to scare me away from celebrating my new link with the great outdoors. It was the greatest gift my father could have given me because it led to a lifetime’s investment in Muskoka. While I’ve moved ten miles south from my first hometown, our Birch Hollow homestead in Gravenhurst has been an equally inspiring portal, from which to write, and live abundantly and prosperously with my two grown sons, Andrew and Robert (musicians) and my wife Suzanne, a local high school teacher. We’re all pretty committed here, to protecting the nature that nurtures us each day of the rolling year. We’ve been known to join activists to protect wetlands and forests, and maintain the well being of our water resources. That’s our debt to the region that we will continue to pay, happily, for as long as required .......and to vehemently insist, in our own activist perpetuity, that developers and local politicians respect the well being of a healthy eco-system......and place conservation and our global well-being above profit-at-all-cost enterprise.
I have most recently, of course, spent some time thinking about my father’s decision to move his family to Muskoka, and how enlightened he was to see that the city was changing, the stresses of urban life broadening, while the countryside offered a slower, gentler, less aggressive background for all of us to benefit from. Yet he was a Cabbagetown boy who had spent his entire life in one city or another. After one weekend stay at the Bruce Lake cottage, his opinion of city life was far outweighed by all things Muskoka. On a day like this, I can so clearly recall those first winter walks to Bracebridge Public School, stopping on the Hunt’s Hill bridge, to look over the black, winding course of the Muskoka River......one of the coldest spots on earth when the January wind was blowing west to east over the frigid water. Many a young, brave student placed the tip of their tongue on that cold steel railing, being suspended there until some kind passerby would assist. Winter in Muskoka has always offered a profound and generous inspiration for me, and I believe it all has to do with that very first winter in 1966, the year my father made a huge gamble about quality of life for his family. He made the right decision, and even though my mother Merle objected initially, she happily remained here for the balance of her life......enjoying so many walks with her grandchildren along this same stretch of Muskoka River, winter, summer, spring and fall.
It’s hard not to dwell on the possibility that my father will succumb to his illness, and leave in mortal form this beautiful place on earth. I don’t think his spirit will travel too far away from what was his own respite from urban stresses, and I believe that in this enchanted old woodland where we used to stroll, his spirit will continue to step along through storm and calm, beneath sunlit canopy and moonlight, maintaining that eternal foothold on a beautiful life of once. My father wasn’t a poet, an environmentalist, an activist or a dreamer for that matter. Those were the traits of his son, and activities he didn’t agree or disagree with, before his own careful, patient scrutiny. He was keenly aware of how paradise was being threatened by development and tolerated this writer’s penchant for getting involved in the fight for conservation. He was always supportive. He just wasn’t one to carry a placard. And he was always kindly and caring about the quality of hometown life, and he was very much part of the fabric of the community, whether it was in his own apartment complex, or in his daily travels where he enjoyed the company of many friends. There was no question in my mind, that he himself knew the move to Muskoka had improved all of our lives.
In the short time since beginning this little tome, I can already feel the change of temperature and hear the clicking of the radiators trying to keep up with the frigid new reality. The snowfall has intensified, and the dusting of snow has made the woodlands, abutting The Bog, the perfect portrait of a Muskoka winter. It is the postcard image that has long attracted visitors to our region. It is the subtle beckoning of nature, a simple, uncomplicated message, for all of us watchers in the woods, to pay attention to what is most important in life......and when I don my coat and hood, boots and bulky mitts soon after this last paragraph, I will trundle down this narrow lane, and feel again the great sanctuary, the amazing peace and restorative goodwill of the Muskoka lakeland.....and extend a wee prayer, and thanks, to Ted Currie Sr., the chap responsible for our family’s lifetime in the joyous embrace of nature.