The River That Runs Through

THE RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT - HAS INFLUENCED RESIDENTS FROM THE BEGINNING - BUT HAS ANYONE NOTICED

THE MUSKOKA RIVER HAS BEEN PART OF OUR PYSCHE, OUR HISTORY, AND THE INDIVIDUALITY OF THE COMMUNITY

     I nearly drowned in the Muskoka River, once upon a time. I saw my wee life pass before me, and it was a short review. A rather pathetic replay, truth be known, to show for all my many exciting adventures to that point. I was fifteen years old, and I came within a hair's breadth of being on display, in all my lost youth, at the local funeral home. So when I write or talk about the Muskoka River, I do so with the greatest reverence. I survived a frightening encounter with its undertow; and what had appeared so gentle and soothing, in casual recreation, possessed, in stark contrast, a serpent's constriction of invisible current.

     It was the first warning I was given, less than twenty-four hours, after we arrived as new permanent residents, of the Town of Bracebridge.     "Stay away from the river," my mother warned me, as I put on my winter boots, with the failing sole, and my coat that had been repaired at least twenty times, to the point you could see all of Merle's scattering, of less than proficient stitches, on the shoulders and arms. She was more concerned that I would drown, in the black water of the Muskoka River, than die of wet feet or from the chill-wind, cutting through my old parka.

     When we lived in Burlington, up on Harris Crescent, a block off Lakeshore Road, Merle warned me to "Stay away from the lake," instead, which meant that while I could play in the ravine of Ramble Creek, I was forbidden to cross through the conduit under the road, which would have put me on the slippery rocks of the lakeshore. So in Burlington Merle worried I might be swept away by a wave on Lake Ontario, and in Bracebridge, she figured my curiosity, the lure of adventure, would pull me to the bank of the Muskoka River. She was right, you know. I frequently arrived on the rocks of the lake, in Burlington, after a short, wet hike, and I spent a good portion of my youth, sitting with mates, and swimming off the embankment of Bass Rock, southeast of the rapids, and Wilson's Falls, on the North Branch of the Muskoka River.

     I've been indebted to water for enhancing my life, in so many ways. At the same time, I have to admit, that despite my mother's most emphatic warnings, I nearly drowned on four occasions. First of all, I fell through the thin ice over a chest-deep pool on Ramble Creek, one spring afternoon, wearing a bulky snowsuit. Which by the way, immediately acted like a bladder, trapping gallons of creek water. My mother always warned me to stay away from the creek as well, in the spring of the year. I just didn't listen. I almost drowned in Lake Muskoka, at Kirby's Beach, after Al "Weasel" Hillman, jumped off a dock onto my head, knocking me out temporarily. I came to in the knick of time, because no one knew I'd been injured as a result. Then I almost succumbed to exhaustion, while trying to swim across Bass Rock, and once again, Al was with me. We had been on the opposite side of the river, and our mates were on the west, or downtown side. As they wanted to head downtown for an ice cream cone, after swimming, and Al and I were too lazy to go all the way around, and down Hunt's Hill, we decided to swim across, like we had done about ten thousand times. The only difference, is that we had to bring our dry clothes across, meaning we had to keep one arm in the air, while we dog-paddled with the other. Al was wearing diving flippers, so he was across the narrows of Bass Rock, in less than a minute. I wasn't a great swimmer to begin with, and I got caught by the current, and pulled down toward the larger bay, south of the same narrows.

     The danger of this, was that entering the bay, as the current pulled me downstream, was the reality the distance to shore doubled and tripled the further along I was pulled, because of the shape of the bay. Add to this, the fact I dropped my arm and the clothes I had elevated, thusly submerged, quadrupling in weight. None of my mates had any idea what had happened, and were getting ready to head downtown. I dropped some of the clothing, worrying less at that moment, about my mother being mad, at lost attire, than if I had become a casualty of her greatest fear; the river. I could have drowned and my chums, who were all good lads, wouldn't have thought it odd, until halfway uptown. "Where's Ted?" "Oh, he'll catch up." By that point, I would probably have been cast over the falls, to add insult to a drowning victim. It was my fault on several counts. When I got home that night, Merle seemed to know that her son had come within a whisker of drowning, just by the look of me coming through the door. I was also wet, which kind of gave the swimming part away, but she never said a word about my missing shirt, socks and dress pants. I'd thrown my shoes across the river before I got into the water that evening. So the Muskoka River spared me. There are hundreds of former residents who weren't as fortunate. From pioneer times to the present, a lot of lives have been lost in the deep running currents of that black snaking river, that looks so picturesque on post cards, and in tourism videos.

     As I've written about many times previously, in these blogs, I was nearly drowned, as was my wife Suzanne, as well, during a canoe mishap, on the South Branch of the Muskoka River, during the annual Muskoka Shield Canoe Race. We toppled out of the canoe in a small rapids, and we weren't wearing life jackets. After some precarious moments trying to balance, in the middle of the rapids, we were rescued by Dan Lacroix and his daughter, Angie, a father-daughter team entered into the event.  A few moments longer, and I would have lost my balance, and fallen right into the area of the rapids, where the undertow would have been strongest. Suzanne had an injured hand, and couldn't use it to swim free of the rapids. So we survived because of the proximity of our rescuers.

     If you were to conduct a modern day survey, to ask permanent residents, especially in the urban area of town, most exposed to the river, whether or not they think of the waterway frequently, some times, seldom, or not at all, the results would be predictable. If you were to ask, regardless of the answer to the first question, whether or not they considered the Muskoka River part of their psyche, living in Bracebridge, I doubt there would be anyone who would answer affirmatively. It's not something we think about, as such, unless we are boating on it, or swimming in its chill water. From an historical perspective, the Muskoka River, being the north and south branches, has been part of the characteristic of this community, dating back to the first explorers and surveyors. The river has provided a canoe route, a navigation link, a power source, a water resource, and the means of transporting logs to mill sites. The first settlers selected this location because of the cataract, of the present Bracebridge Falls, which in the very early 1860's, was known as "North Falls." The larger of the cataracts, but located on the South Branch, was known as "The Great Falls." The falls and the navigable waters, represented economic potential, and a connectedness with the wider Lake Muskoka, and Gravenhurst, where the first steamship was launched. In those early years of town history, the river was all important to economic development, and future prosperity. From a toppled pine tree, that served as an inaugural bridge across the rapids, above the falls, to the construction of several major iron linkages, across the waterway, this permanent relationship with the river became part of the culture of the hamlet, village and then town. It became so ingrained in fact, that most residents probably would have answered the questions above, roughly the same as they would today; denying that they spend much time at all, thinking about the "river that runs through it!" I know differently. It is a quality and quantity of living in Bracebridge. It is just a deeply imbedded reality. We know it's there, and we see it numerous times each day and week, but it never seems a rite of passage, or necessity, to analyze its social / cultural or spiritual connotation. It is what it is! Or maybe there's more to it!

     Quite a number of years ago, a group of citizens, with the backing of town council, launched a spring-time event, known as the "Festival of the Falls." It was a good idea, and I joined as a volunteer historian, to help write promotional material. I sensed a political vein to the event, I didn't care for, infiltrating what had been a largely successful citizen initiative. The problem with the event was a simple one. It shouldn't have been a spring event. The best time to have run such a weekend festival, to maximize attendance, would have been during the autumn season, as a sort of rejuvenation of the former Cavalcade of Colors event that used to bring in visitors by the bus-load. This was once a district-wide celebration and recognized throughout the province. Tourists even arrived here via special-event passenger train to participate. I believe the Festival of the Falls would have had much greater success, in the fall of the year instead, and I truly believe, with focus on the Muskoka River as an historic resource, a much more compact, central, and easy-to-manage event would have manifested over time. My focus, would have been on river-lore, and on the economic realities of having established the town along its banks in the first place.

     The dark ribbon of the Muskoka River is part of every Bracebridge resident's day to day existence, whether they know it or not. If they live in the urban area, and walk or drive to and from work, they will cross over the river at some point in the day, and again on their return home. I'm willing to bet, the last few coins in my pocket, there are some folks who cross one of our bridges upwards of ten times each day; and who drive regularly alongs its basin, on the River Road, Beaumont Drive, or Santa's Village Road. Travellers on foot, on bicycles and in motor vehicles, who view it, fully or out of the corners of their eyes, during all times of day and night, and through the influences of the four seasons. They may not think about the river specifically, yet will ponder or remark to a passenger, or someone at home or work, how beautiful it was, on a such a spring morning as this, to drive along and see the rolling mist in the first light of a Muskoka morning; or having just watched a beaver rippling the water, while traversing its width; or seeing a deer standing along the shore, its image reflecting in the silver on black, of the deep river flow. I've taken many photographs like this, in my years living in Bracebridge and area, especially during the several years we resided just beyond the Beaumont Farm. I often walked to and from town, in all kinds of weather, and all hours of the day. There is a vibration made by this river, that at times, can sounds like a deep, mournful voice coming from the middle, bracketed by the constant wash and ripple over the shoreline rocks; and gently against the summer vegetation, growing in its shallows. I have seen the moon reflecting on its surface, so distinctly, such that the voyeur can get mesmerized, momentarily about which way is up. The poet takes over from here, and plays with the images in verse.

     In the autumn of the year, the reflections of the hardwood colors are exceptional, and the Muskoka River becomes the centre of attention for romantics, the sentimental of heart, hikers, dawdlers, sightseers, artists and photographers. In the winter, the steam rises from the cataract of Bracebridge Falls, into an ice-crystal plume, that you can see rising from a half mile away. I could watch it, as a youngster, from the top of Hunt's Hill, on my way to Bracebridge Public School, on those frigid January mornings with a sting in the air. There was the so-called (and very convenient) "magic spell," you see, we all knew about, cast upon us weak mortals by that black unfrozen river. This was the story, in our defense, that we told our guardians, whenever we got into trouble, that inevitably had something or other to do with exposure to the river. I suppose now, reflecting back, how magical it was, had a lot to do with the winter season enhancements; the sparkling snowscape of the shoreline, the twinkling sunlight, and mirrored clouds in the water, which, in our words, must have enchanted the spirit of a school chum, on one of those mornings, to defy the laws of nature and climate; being commanded by forces unknown and undetected, to place his big wet tongue on the iron railing, right at the middle of the bridge, and river. His view from there, for the better part of an hour, was looking directly down (now other choice) at the fast moving water, and he may have even been able to see his reflection; a toque, eyes wide open, and the upper part of his mouth wide open; tears of pain dripping down from his cheeks, into the steaming water below. After that, his chums, who abandoned him there, to fend for himself, could truthfully admit, the Muskoka River had now officially entered their consciousness, of what it meant to be a home-towner, in a place where the river does run through it!

     I have stood on the concrete brakewall, just below the falls, in Bracebridge Bay, when the former freight shed was still standing, in order to get a better view of police, in an array of boats, dragging the river bottom for a swimmer, who drowned the day before. He wasn't found that day, but a lot of old logging tools, were pulled up in the grappling hooks instead, and I remember them being lined-up, as if they were corpses as well, beneath the canopy of the wharf building. There were quite a few pike poles and related implements, pulled from an area of river, that at times in history, had been shore to shore logs, during the spring drive. The body of the deceased swimmer, was spotted floating on the opposite side of the bay, a few days later, by someone walking over the silver bridge. To my knowledge, the river has always given up its dead, sooner or later. There have been others claimed by the heavy undertow in the bay, and more than a few, have perished initially, from a crash onto the rocks of the falls themselves, having been carried by the rapids over the brink. Many settlers and their family members, were claimed by misadventure, in much the same fashion, having taken the river for granted, losing their lives in the gamble.

     I told historian, Gary Long, a long time ago, that his book, "This River, The Muskoka," was one of my favorite regional histories, because it is how I have always felt about this mysterious, yet predictable length of watershed, dissecting the rugged topography of our region. Personally, I have always treated the river more intimately, because there weren't many days in my youth, after having moved to the town, that I wasn't at some point, staring into its blackness, pondering what was swimming and thriving in its depths. On the way to school, each morning, I respected it as a living, breathing entity, with a personality reflective of the time of day, and prevailing weather. One day, it would seem the perfect companion waterscape, for music from Bach to Mozart, bright and cheerful, yet with the approach of a late spring thunder storm, its mood quickly became as dark as the sky overhead; and it seemed, that its slow motion caress against shore, and dull roar of the distant falls, was instead, more of a funeral dirge, with its vapor veil of melancholy. On sunny spring mornings, it would mirror the overhead leaves of venerable shoreline maples, and hardy evergreens, leaning out over the water. Later in the hot afternoon, the river seemed as if it was painted in place, much as an artist's rendering shelved upon an easel. The local youth, heading home from school, would toss it leftover sandwiches and uneaten fruit, as if to feed it; truthfully though, just getting rid of the evidence, before someone at home investigated what was supposed to be an empty lunch box. Others of us, with a bottle of pop in hand, purchased from the machine in front of the Muskoka Trading grocery store, would just cross our arms, rest our chins, and ponder what life, and girls were all about. The girls we knew, from our part of town, never stopped to ponder anything; that's how self assured they were back then. Later in the evening, the river would appear more green than black, and then silver in the midst of a slowly setting sun, and soon, it would mirror the evening's moon and twinkling stars; becoming fabled and legendary, by those daydreamers and young poets, who thrived on strange fictions, and grand curiosities, that could never be solved in this life or the next.

     This dark band of ribbon water, has inspired joy and promise, speculation and realization; brought about success and prosperity, while supplying the needs of commerce and industry. It has been an important regional attraction, in its natural grandeur, and a boon to tourism. It has been a source of pleasure, joy, entertainment, recreation, and a vision of solitude ever-enhancing "the picturesque," forwarded by hundreds of artists over the centuries, who believed they had exploited its soul. It has, at the same time, inspired fear during spring floods, when it bleeds over its banks, and generated fear and loathing, when we learn that another life has been claimed by its undertow. It is both beauty and beast, a blessing and a curse, and it is our heritage, being in its company.

     Through history, the Muskoka River has been in our pysche. We just haven't appreciated how deeply imbedded it has become. I have been using the image, illusion, romanticism and danger of the Muskoka River, in my writing, from my first attempts at short story composition; and yes, as far back as grade six, at Bracebridge Public School. While at the same time, an hour later, in history class, learning about its natural heritage. Even though my mother has been gone for quite some time now, I can still hear the echo of her time-honored warning, "Teddy Currie, don't you dare go near that river, do you hear?" It has always begged the question, why not? Even when I know the answer, the river compels me to disobey. When it had me in its grasp, and could have absorbed me into itself, in a mortal heartbeat, I was shown its mercy. It spit me out, like a pit from a cherry. I can never dismiss its presence, as being, just "a river." There's something more. Something fantastic. A life force that defines us in so many ways, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not; that runs its course all the live long day. Fiction and Non-fiction at the same time.