Walden The Winter Isn't Far Beyond

WALDEN

THE WINTER ISN'T FAR BEYOND THE FROSTED HORIZON

There is that tell-tale trace of woodsmoke permeating the air this afternoon, that is quite nostalgic, very much the harbinger of the time of year when it is wise to huddle at hearthside. What has been a gentle autumn season, spare the few windstorms to blast-across Birch Hollow, the mild temperatures have kept the leaves from turning, in some cases, and falling onto this forest path that leads through the bog. It is Hallowe-en today, and while there is no sign of ghosts or hobgoblins lurking in the woodland shadows, as of yet, there's a distinct feel of winter quickly approaching……and I fear that much more than wee beasties and scurrilous other Hallowe'en apparitions.

Outside of the trickle of water over the myriad cataracts through this lowland, or the sound of a leaf hitting the ground, it is a wonderfully silent place to ponder the season's transition. I confess to having visited this place less, few times this autumn season, and working harder and longer as home and business economy demand, these days. I most often venture forth, when admittedly I'm fed-up with the rigors, or frustrated with the way time, and its subtle seconds disappear into regret, and rob me of arriving at this portal feeling optimistic…..I can make up the time by keen awareness before the sand disappears down the proverbial hour-glass. I despise having these regrets, and the sense of time loss, that could have been spent enjoying these natural wonders, that surround me in this wild, forgiving, restorative place. Yet strangely, as the resilient soul soon discovers, what might be a mortal loss, is a spiritual gain, and after a few moments of solitude, and general ponder, I will once again find myself thinking the absence was necessary……to make this re-discovery ever-more poignant and meaningful to the unsettled heart.

I will carry away, this rejoice of heart, regeneration of spirit, when soon nightfall prevails itself upon the watcher, and beyond here, will come the determined footsteps of faithful trick or treaters, looking to fill their cloth sacks,…… with the candy handed out, by kindly neighbors and traditionalists, up and down this street. Tonight, they will not be bathed in moonlight, but possibly in the cold rain of inclemency. It won't dampen their resolve to visit as many residences as possible. Just as I trundled, and my young lads ran from house to house as children, with little regard for the prevailing weather. It was the allure of "the treat."

Angst is the curse of the times. The economic troubles around the globe. The assorted stalemates and inconsistencies brewing locally, all ramp up fear of recessionary waves, when reality serves its warning……, of imminent peril ahead; yet we've only just been released by the last undertow of poor economy. It is a wonderful place, this friendly bog, to contemplate one's next move. As the poet and artist revel in this haven of trees and waterfalls, frost-layered cat-tails and leaning old birches, next to venerable old pines, so too can the work weary find solace, in this non-hectic pace, of slow footfall on a well trodden path, from here to there, in the midst of this natural embrace…..I must never distance myself……as it has been salvation so many times in the past.

Now I must don the weight of ponderous chain once more, and try to find the sense of business, to the soft, steady cadence, I can feel against my soul, of sand hitting sand in this hour glass life we try to survive foolishly by efficiency and profit……unlike these leaves that have never worried about getting old and falling…..and haver never once turned a profit, except for the joy they have given me.

AN AUTUMN DAY IN THE RAIN - MY WALDEN

I'm going to get drenched out here. It is raining hard now, and the overhead canopy of colored maple leaves and birch, and the towering, venerable old pines are sheltering me only modestly. My mother Merle expended many anecdotes and old wives' tales, trying to get me to come in out of the rain. I didn't care if I got wet as a child so why would it bother me at 56 years of age. I'm pretty sure I did get colds and other maladies from being out in adverse weather but what I learned out there vastly outweighed the consequences. Just as it is today, here in late September, 2011, standing on the jut of land overlooking The Bog here at Birch Hollow, our Gravenhurst homestead. It is a grand sight and a splendid sensation to stand here in the mist-veiled Bog, and watch the deer amble along the far ridge…..listen to the tiny cataracts of run-off water in concealed pockets of cattails and matted grasses.

Even though there are motor vehicles rumbling along the roadways, and a hammer resounding close by, it is easy to remove oneself to the tranquility of this wild acreage so close to urbanity. It is an ethereal experience, and it is quite possible to find yourself immersed in the whole history of this oasis of forest, rock and water……as if a thousand years of its history can be spanned by a simple daydream. It is an important place. A healing place. A sojourn so many of us neglect, and bypass daily as if it is nothing more than a backdrop for the place we live. Yet standing here, as I frequently attend, it is obvious that an ignorance to nature is a growing, dangerous failure of modern man. How many times has an ill-informed council thought it prudent to sell-off this bogland, to foster more house and condo building. Not giving much attention, to the fact, this little acreage of wetland, filters a high volume of run-off water from a huge area of our community, before it makes its way down into Muskoka Bay, of the broader Lake Muskoka. I'm reminded daily, of the fight we have had recently, to preserve it, and the clean-ups we must do regularly because of those residents and citizens from beyond the neighborhood, who continue to dump refuse into its precious nooks and crannies.

The meaning of life is here. It is the beating heart, the pulse, the nurturing ground from which we all benefit. When I find someone's cast-offs, dumped here, it is a clear demonstration of our failings in this life. As we put jobs and money above the well being of our environment, with plans for a huge pipeline from Canada to the United States, for example, well, it's what our world, and its excesses, has come to in this new century. We need more, want more, and more than even that! Yet when you pause thoughtfully, for a moment, and think about a place such as this, so beautiful to the eyes, so peaceful to the heart, so invigorating to the soul, how sad it is that we have misinterpreted its subtle, passive, wonderful message. That to maintain our place on this earth, and conserve what does in fact keep us alive, we need a co-operation of the citizens of the world, and restraint on the capitalist rage of fiscal alchemy, trying to turn every resource into a source of revenue. Some things on this earth are not for sale. You'd never know it, by how we live and work.

A little fellow here, and chums, have built a wee fort for themselves, from old wood gathered from some backyard woodpiles. They work away at it for hours on end, and they seem so invigorated, on a Saturday morning, to get over into the woods for another day of building and general adventure sport. It reminds this old-timer of my own series of forts and hideaways from the rest of the world. Although it is kind of misshapen, and covered in tarps to keep it dry inside, I welcome this intrusion on these beautiful woods, because it means our neighborhood youngsters are playing outdoors again. For years here, youngsters stayed on their own property, in their fenced backyards and in those too comfortable, computer equipped recreation rooms, playing video games. It's refreshing and important that they explore these woods, and appreciate the nature that surrounds them. Even in the hinterland of Ontario, it's possible to be disconnected from nature……as many of us live city-type lives, even when we can rightfully claim rural status. While it's true I have made regular trips over to the encampment to clean up the scattered boards with protruding nails, I do enjoy hearing the chatter of contentment, when they are fully engaged in their intricate adventure games.

I have never had any problem sharing these woods. And they have become popular amongst dog walkers, especially, although more and more parents are leading their children by the hand, to look over the wildflowers that grow in pockets along the ridge. It is even more exciting, to hear a parent explaining to their children, about the comings and goings of the resident squirrels, the birds flitting about in the overhead boughs, and about the bugs encountered from flower to flower, and beneath the old rotting logs. If there is a chance of saving this planet, it will be the passions of these children to carry-on.

I was at an outdoor camp with a group of local students, some years back, and watched a young lad, with an accompanying posse, relentlessly attacking a snake they'd found on the path. I was appalled. So was my son. Both of us intervened before it was too late for the snake, and it was the look of contempt on the boys' faces that was most disheartening. They didn't see anything wrong with beating this creature to death. I offered an explanation. They stared at me as if I was from another planet. Here they were, on an outdoor adventure, as part of their schooling, and the teacher hadn't prepared them for what they were about to encounter……and why we should refrain from destroying creatures and habitat because it happens to be in our way.

My sweater is soaked through now, and the rain has become quite heavy in the past few moments. It is so wonderfully refreshing none the less, but I can still hear the echo of my mother's voice, as she used to call me from our Burlington home, when her dream-obsessed child was mucking about the environs of Ramble Creek, on its tumble into the wide expanse of Lake Ontario. Some things never change. I'm glad of this fact, that over a life time I have never once abandoned either dreaming, or my respect for the environment, and its welfare.

My lads feel the same, and I think they'll be only too willing to pass it on to their children one day……who will also build forts, study bugs, listen to the birds and squirrels, and have so many exciting adventures, in wild places like this.

RETURN TO MY WALDEN

I have been on a writing hiatus over the late spring and summer of this year. Not that I've stopped walking and dawdling through these beautiful woods of the Bog, but rather Suzanne and I have spent some time working on Birch Hollow, the gardens in particular, and sorting our possessions which have loaded the old homestead to the rafters. As long-time antique collectors and dealers, we know what excess is all about. The problem, of course, is that opportunity is both the potential and the disadvantage. Some times what we find out on our adventures, will fit easily into a bag. At other times, what we find of considerable value will be next to impossible, to fit into our vehicle. We never leave Birch Hollow with a determination to only buy small items. We have been known to come back, after a day's travels, with a bedstead, a pine cupboard, several primitive pine chairs, a couple of paintings (some as long as the van), a few folk-art pieces, and of course, some good old books. On other occasions we might arrive home with only several boxes of old paper and documents, that are worth much more than the truck load of antique furniture and art work. It was a summer of this-and-that but we had a good and relaxing time, despite all the work in the raging heat. But now it's time to settle down a wee bit, and pay more attention to the environs here at Birch Hollow, and the grandeur of the old forest trails, and thriving boglands so vigorous in the autumn season. Please join me for some autumn adventures, in this beautiful little pocket of Gravenhurst, Ontario, Canada.

THE NOISE OF THE URBAN ENVIRONS - AND THE LOST SHRILL OF THE LOON

There are operations near us, here at Birch Hollow, that are intrusive noise makers. There are times when you expect some rogue train to come barreling through the woodlands, coming from this local institution. I try to imagine what could create such a terrible racket, if not a train. I wonder if the management of said institution has any idea what their equipment sounds like, in the neighborhood, and in the vicinity. There have been some earth moving activities, or so it sounds, these past few days, and the first time I heard it, I ran over to The Bog to make sure a bulldozer wasn't plowing through the lowland.

Early this morning, before the neighborhood pre-occupation with leaf blowers, riding mowers, assorted rough-shape lawn mowers and chainsaws, you could hear the gentle tinkling down of run-off water, over two or three crystalline cataracts. The matting of grass and overgrown trees puts these water courses, out of view but what a wonderful sound it is, to hear the life force moving through the landscape, like blood pulsing through our veins. I heard a loon's shrill cry. A small woodpecker was tapping away at an old pine. The sound of the wind, rustling the old field grasses, made it seem pleasantly haunted. But I had only just emerged from the woodlands, when the first lawn mower of the day started up. Then there was the guy who idles his car for a half hour, somewhere on the next street. Even as I sit at my desk, two hours later, there is still a lawnmower in full regalia, close enough to be intrusive. Last night, as I sat down to read Wayland Drew's book, "Brown's Weir," a charming little book, with an east coast patina, that he wrote with his wife and creative partner, Gwen,…. a neighbor, with a postage-stamp lawn, fired-up his riding mower (which sounds like three smaller mowers), and did the rounds before sunset. I had to put the book down. It wasn't right, to have a rattling lawnmower intrude upon an ocean-side paradise, of which Wayland writes about.

When we first arrived on Segwun Boulevard, in the late 1980's, we reacted with great interest, to the sounds of nature. It was a paradise, as far as we were concerned. We were in town but with the Bog, as a green belt, nature was definitely a buffer from the usual urban chaos. It was great. But nothing prepared us for the sounds of explosions, gun-fire, and sundry other strange noises, including screams, that should have drawn interest from everybody on the block. We'd run out of the house, sensing that a neighbor's home had been blown to smithereens, and find nary a puff of smoke or the audience we would have expected under the circumstances. Some clown would shoot at something or other, a half block away, and sometimes we'd be out for a walk at the time. We'd duck in case a bullet was coming over-land. You could never find where the sound was coming from, as if someone was actually shooting from an open window in a house. What we found particularly strange was that nobody seemed to worry about this stuff. An explosion would literally shake the house and its contents, and yet there was no construction going on near us. It used to happen in the early evening. It was unsettling. Now we find ourselves used to these intrusions, and unless we're out of doors at the time, we don't even look to see if there's any carnage to validate that an explosion just occurred.

People here don't give much thought to noise pollution. But in most garden sheds along the street, throughout the neighborhood, there are arsenals of noise intruders from leaf blowers to weed whackers, chainsaws to log splitters, and then there are the wood chippers. Through the day there are construction projects abounding in this bailiwick, all having some intrusive quality, mixed with the power mowers and massive boat engines churning the water of Muskoka Bay. It may seem petty that this is an issue for us purists. But when you realize what sounds these devices are blocking out…..well, that's unfortunate, because they are the sounds of life forces, and they need to be heard. The noise impacts nature generally…..not just the sensitive ears of the mortals.

For a few moments this morning, there were no thunderous dump trunks smashing down the lane. The earth movers were silent, and there was no vehicular traffic. A dog was barking somewhere close and a mother had not yet begun to scream at her youngsters. That would come in the moments before leaving for school. There were no slamming doors, no chainsaws or leaf blowers. No horns, no sirens. And there was a loon. The brush of limbs ruffled by two squirrels. Two venerable old crows cackled above, and I think I heard the sound of a deer brushing through the shrubs on the other side of the Bog. These are the sounds I seek out, and find so restorative. By nine this morning, it was a neighborhood of oppressive urban harmony, as if I was back in my Toronto rooming house, of years ago, listening to buses and feeling the vibration of the nearby subway, hearing the chorus of jackhammers, horns, yelling and yes….explosions of one sort or another. Most people here don't care if they hear the hoot of an owl, the cry of the loon, the tap of the woodpecker, and wouldn't find it interesting at all to listen to these tiny cataracts of water, as they send water down to the lake. What a wonderful din nature provides. Now my neighbor has employed a weed whacker, one of the most annoying species of modern noise making.

A GENTLE END OF DAY, A GENTLE BEGINNING - IF ONLY WE COULD FIND THE TIME TO ENJOY IT

When you stand on the rise above The Bog, and can spare a few moments to ponder the nature surrounding you, it’s easy to sense what Thoreau felt at his Walden Pond cabin. You can feel momentarily as if you are the only person on earth. You will feel that wondrous sense of entitlement that you have found this place in nature, this moment in time, and that it is all so precious and abundant. You can, at the same time, feel lonely, possibly frightened for a moment, timid, yet strangely invigorated.....keenly alert about what surrounds you. And momentarily the myriad sounds from this wild place will become clear, and that will enable the watcher to determine, without seeing them, which tiny cataract of many, carries the most volume of water over its decline. You will be able to recognize the sound of the breeze rustling through the brown, dry grasses, distinguishing it from the squirrels in a sunset bravado, running across the mounds of earth across the lowland. You might be fortunate enough to hear a deer brushing through the thicket, on the other side of the hollow. And it will all be an enlightening experience. You thought it was just a stop along the way! It is a compelling sensation here, with the gentle spring breeze bringing the fragrances of new growth and old mixed as an elixir.....a tonic to wash away what the winter encrusted upon our souls.

This evening, for me, a regular watcher in the woods, is just as amazing as this scene has so generously prevailed at first light, quenched by the soft fall of a spring rain. Even though the urban neighborhood of this Muskoka town is only a short distance away, from the heart of this greenbelt, at times you can imagine being truly lost in the wilds of the district. You might even miss the sound of car engines and truck traffic on nearby roads that surround this restorative place. So many urbanites have forgotten what Muskoka is all about, these days, and youngsters as well, might only visit here if there were interconnecting bike trails, and daredevil jumps, to ramp up excitement. Yet for the dreamers, amongst us, standing here for even a few minutes, thinking about the meaning of life, and after-life, and enjoying what is uncomplicated and free, this is a spectacular adventure that changes every time I visit.

When I returned to my office this morning, to write this little outdoor piece, I was thoroughly relaxed and contented by all that I had enjoyed of spring re-awakening, down in The Bog. Half way through this editorial piece, the computer.....my old adversary, froze in the middle of a sentence, a word and a thought. How appropriate. I was determined not to let technology ruin the mood. I was to calm to be anything but accommodating to the tabletop beast. Not being computer savvy, more than just being able to sit and tap away at this keyboard, I had to rustle up my wizard son to set me free again. Five minutes after leaving me to my own devices, the electronic marvel shut down again but I was able to trouble-shoot free this time. I credit my time, this morning, over at The Bog, for giving me the “serenity now” to finish the short tome, without even once feeling the need to clobber this computer for its quirks. I have a few of my own, so we are of the same ilk to some degree.

I will sign off this morning, to allow the technologist to work his magic at upgrades. It appears our computer is having a bad day. If I could fit it under my arm.....it’s an old desk model, maybe a stint looking out over the bog might do us both good. I’m told by the experts it’s time for a lap-top. I still have a preference for my own Smith-Corona typewriter.....and by golly, it was portable and didn’t need a battery.

I will retreat to the moor later this morning, with my friend Bosko, and we shall resume our bid to remove ourselves, once again, from urban and modern trappings, to feel for a few moments, what it was like when Thoreau opened his cabin door onto Walden Pond, for a wee escape from his writing. While he may have suffered the need for more ink, for his pen, he didn’t experience the let-down of a computer malfunction. That is a conundrum he is fortunate to have missed.

WANDERING AIMLESSLY A PASSION OF MINE

Since my day to day writing-job was abandoned, when I took up antique hunting over journalism, back in 1990, I’ve rarely had writing jags as prolific and successful, as I’ve experienced, quite joyfully, for the past six months. I love to write. Sometimes I do get anchored down by certain subject material, and this year it was local politics. I’ve never been a political animal, as a hobbyist, and have shied away from spending too much time analyzing it.....even when I was working as an editor for the local press......I’d make no apology for fobbing off a political story to a reporter interested in local government. I used to fall asleep at council meetings.....as did four or five other district councillors bored to slumber by the proceedings.

. I’m particularly strict about what makes it to print, these days, and what is destroyed before public consumption. I’ve always worked in this fashion....much like an artist with sketches and paint boards that don’t measure up, and are destroyed to avoid any future appearance in the public domain. Starting about six years ago now, I began seeking out all my early notes and essays, and commenced shredding like a man possessed. I couldn’t even stand to read opening paragraphs. I knew what they were, and my only question was why I had hung onto them for so long. I don’t want my family to have to make these decisions later on, about what can be re-published, and what should make the waste bin. So I have cleansed the trial and error copy and although I had regrets, over the reduction generally, it was a good feeling to cut the rope, on what I have long perceived, to be a cumbersome anchor, encrusted in the barnacles of writing misadventure. Now I’m far more precise and with the computer, versus the old Underwood typewriter, I can zap what I don’t want, without crumbling one page of actual printed copy.

Today it’s so nice to wander out here through The Bog.....my English moor, and think about some new writing projects I want to pursue this spring and summer. I’ve joined a new publication, The Arrow, up in Almaguin, and I’m re-introducing some feature columns on artist Tom Thomson.....and his mysterious death on Algonquin’s Canoe Lake, in July 1917. I like starting new, even on semi-retired research projects, such as the Thomson story, which I began writing initially for the Muskoka Sun, back in the mid-1990's. It’s a great story with all kinds of strange twists. But it’s Thomson’s fabulous art, more than anything else, that compels me to stick with the story-line. Out here this morning, I can see a number of natural scenes Thomson might have found worthy of closer study, possibly a sketch or two. What a privilege it is then, to be so pleasantly immersed in the middle of remarkable nature.

Over the past six months I involved myself with political debate and local government-themed editorials, on my blog-sites, and it is such a departure for me to do so, that Suzanne felt compelled to remind me of the more inspiring things in life, I’ve been blowing off.......in order to write about tax increases, social neglect, over-governance, under governance, and general malaise at town hall here in Gravenhurst. Not that I don’t believe my work over the past six months, was worthwhile, just that Suzanne knows that if I drop my landscape writing for more than a couple of weeks at a time, there’s an obsessive-compulsive problem brewing. I need to wander these well trodden paths, and stand here looking out over all the fresh growth, the new and emerging life forms, that call this splendid little haven, their home. For the first few serious outings, through the wetland, I will still grumble about this or that, an objection from some newspaper account I’ve read, or kick at some fallen birch, as if it represents all the political problems we face in this municipality. You should see what I kick when disenchanted about provincial and federal politics. I have to remind myself constantly that what I’m kicking is some

critter’s habitat. So I refrain.

I’m not interested in politics. I’m interested in good governance. It’s in darn short supply.

I will stand, overlooking The Bog this morning, and arrive at a more contented state of mind, feeling markedly more poetic than activist. It is election day in Canada. I hope everyone votes. This beautiful place will stay on my mind throughout the day now, and when I sit down at this keyboard, I will feel empowered, not burdened-down by things I can’t change or improve upon. This nature, I study, is perfect as it is. The freedom I have to explore it, is a freedom known to the spirit, as the greatest escape of all. A burden cast off,.... a heaven-on-earth to explore.

APRIL AND WINTER STROLLING ARM IN ARM - THE BOGLANDS TRANSFORMED

Today the wind still bellows through the evergreens and half-fallen old birches, standing guard on the far embankment. The storm front that pushed over Muskoka, on the weekend, brought down a large number of old and venerable trees in this boglands. There are lots of fallen limbs and birch chunks smashed to the ground. The windsong of the air rushing through the pine-tops was as eerie and mournful as I’ve ever heard from our abutting woodlands. The roar, at times, seemed as if belonging to a train on some invisible track, headed right for this modest abode at Birch Hollow.

Late on Sunday evening, the snow squalls were intense, and by morning, we had a white canopy with considerable ice from a freezing rain, mixed in with the diverse weather that crashed the spring calm of the week before. Looking out over the bog this morning, one might think it was the first snow of the late fall season.....appearing more like the enhancements of November than of mid-April. The wind is still rigorous this morning, and has a cold stab to it, that makes me turn away during the most powerful gusts, cutting through and above this lowland. It is a dangerous walk as many puddles have frozen over, and the ice is coated by a thin layer of fresh snow. The gusting wind is still breaking off small limbs, and tumbling them down onto the white forest floor, and I’ve only just now, had to “dodge and dart” shattered branches, spraying from above, in order to avoid getting hit square on the head. I really shouldn’t be in here now, with so many old and leaning trees. But the view, out over the frozen bog, is so wonderfully bright and inspiring. The artist should be here to capture this frozen landscape.....the new growth breaking through the earth, last week, now covered in ice and snow.

This is a haunted and amazing place and it is worth the risk now, to stand here, looking out over the lowland, and wondering how artist Tom Thomson might have captured the scene on his paint boards.

It is legendary. Historic. A painting of nature, we are entitled to wander through at our leisure.