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.

WALDEN INTERRUPTED
It wasn’t much different in Thoreau’s day either. There were lots of distractions, like work for example, that took the author away from his cabin at Walden Pond. Canadian painter, Tom Thomson, was always being interrupted by necessity, and would have to guide in Algonquin Park to raise money to support his artistic endeavors, which never became particularly fruitful until after his demise in 1917. Although it’s a pretty long stretch to put myself in their shoes, and their circumstance of which they were both quite successful, I too have succumbed to necessity and conventional thought. While I quite enjoy ambling away on this forest path, daydreaming of all sorts of fantastic eventualities, over the past while it’s been work heaped upon more work. Enjoyable pursuits mind you, and in the field antiques which I adore but none the less, a practical period for an impractical thinker. I’ve been glued to this keyboard for more than a month, working our online business which has certainly been a global enterprise recently. We’ve been shipping Canadiana and advertising memorabilia all over the world. True enough, business has been good.
I have finally cleared a little portal on my furniture-stacked porch, so I could set up my summer office, where I work frequently past midnight in the glow of a treasured old oil lamp, I rescued from a Muskoka farm auction some years back. I love sitting out there, looking over the lush ferns and wildflowers of our Birch Hollow, and then across the lane, The Bog and woodland, that truly makes this place an oasis within the urban jungle of even rural Ontario. I am enthralled to hear those faithful Loons that have been haunting this lowland for decades, and the Owls hooting away in the halo of mist and shadow on cool spring nights. I will sit and write for several hours and feel as if it had only been minutes. After a winter of hugging the hearth, it is truly amazing to be afforded this horizon of new growth, and regeneration of fern and flower, the sprays of lilacs now weighing down the boughs.
From mid December, when my father Ed suffered a stroke, ultimately ending his life later in January, to the work-load of an estate we were asked to sell for the family of a Toronto Minister, it was a season largely missed by pre-occupation. Although it wasn’t much of a winter, by Muskoka and Canadian standards, I do feel bad about missing my hiatus periods, writing this journal....which of course is based almost entirely on the escape, even if only mindfully, into my Walden....this adjacent bog and woodland that has been my source of inspiration for the past twenty years or so.
I have again been venturing into the awakening woods numerous times through the day, and finding all sorts of inspiration from what is considered commonplace to others in this neighborhood. There are fewer trees in some quarters of The Bogland, due to the powerful wind storms that have pounded over our region in the past few weeks. There are more birds chattering in the tree tops than I’ve seen for years, and there are at least three Owls residing in a small acreage, trying to find enough to eat. The Loons have been more numerous and closer to our homestead than in years past, and although I haven’t taken a scientific count, I do believe there are more this year than in the past two. We haven’t seen our area wolves and coyotes yet this season, and we hear that a bear has been visiting a neighbor’s bird feeder for snacks. But it is all very restorative to the weary soul, and I’ve vowed to reduce business a tad, to get out and meet the demands of property and appearance, which admittedly my wife prides moreso than another blog entry for her writer husband.
Get out and enjoy what Muskoka has to offer......and it is magnificent. Stop and enjoy the view. It’s a healthy thing to do.

WHEN BUSINESS CALLS - EVEN WHEN THE THOREAUESQUE BECKONS....

I must offer an apology for my lethargy as of late. It has been very much the case that business has come before pleasure. And while it is true that I garner great joy working in the antique profession, nothing can trump my forays in writing at Birch Hollow. But as the accountant in this household is currently of the opinion we should balance the books, it was necessary for awhile to put other, more enjoyable pursuits aside.
We have had the privilege of selling off a considerable quantity of interesting Canadiana, antiquarian books, old paper and some wonderful advertising nostalgia. Now we are close to completion and we can honestly say that the past six weeks have been exciting and well worth experiencing. There just hasn’t been much time for anything else, and seeing as I have for long and long subscribed to the philosophy of dear old Mr. Fezziwig’s (Dickens, A Christmas Carol) belief, that "money isn’t everything," I do intend to happily return to my cherished blog sites, of which there are numerous, and pen copiously once again. As a poor writer I shall continue following this life-long path.
Today the forest canopy is filling in, and the lilac buds are growing ever more significant, ready soon to burst into bloom. The ferns are poking their heads up through the soil and our patch of trilliums has almost doubled from years past. There are a few blackflies but not so bad.
Once again, my apologies for this rather unanticipated but profitable hiatus.

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.