Across the Moor, the Shadow of a Wanderer
As a curious wee lad prone to getting into any number of sticky wickets on any given day, growing up in an urban neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario, I used to spend most of my free time in the valley sliced in two by the black ribbon of Ramble Creek. It was a shallow, frothing gem of glittering stretches and small crystalline waterfalls, a few deep, dark pools where suckers used to thrive, and many flat rock stepping-stones to cross all the way down toward the open expanse of Lake Ontario. We were in our own world down there, and it was marvelous. The adventures we had! And when told repeatedly not to cross through the tunnel beneath Lakeshore Boulevard, and onto the shore of Lake Ontario, well, I stood on that rocky shore hundreds of time despite so many parental warnings.
When I moved to Bracebridge, Ontario in the mid-1960’s, I played in two particular woodlands in our Hunts Hill neighborhood; one being The Grove, and the other being Bamford’s Woods, named after the owner of the rental cottages on the eastern corner of the small block. It wasn’t a big slice of land but there were enough trees and places to hide from our enemies (mostly parents), that it became a favorite respite from whatever was hounding us at the time. I dodged a lot of chores and homework hiding up a tree in Bamford’s Woods. The Grove was a shared safe haven with another local kids’ gang, older than us, who knew a lot about “girl-guy” relations, and cigarettes. We were the “no smoking – no girls” gang.
In Gravenhurst, I came a little late in life to be hiding in the woodlands from my daily chores and business responsibilities. Still, I found the small acreage of open space across from our Gravenhurst home, ideal for stealing away for an hour or so, and wandering down and around the large basin of bog thriving with all sorts of hinterland creatures. My young boys loved to escape into these woods and we have always considered it a great asset of our urban subdivision, to have this green belt directly across from our modest abode. Since we arrived here in the late 1980’s, this birch and evergreen forest and lowland has been my greatest single source of writing inspiration. Every season of the year blossoms in its own magnificent way, throughout this small, haunted woodland setting. There are amazing portals along the paths, where I settle down to watch over the lowland in transition. How pleasing it is to watch the deer graze, the squirrels tossing back and forth through the tree-tops and the birds, the crows and blue jays particularly, calling all day long from the uppermost branches.
Just as folks watched my youthful silhouette float along the pathways of our neighborhood woodlands of once, I’m sure I draw as much attention today, skulking down into the moor and meandering wherever the tree cover and terrain affords safe passage. I quest into the woods these days with my canine companion, Bosko, a part border collie etc., that keeps me guarded should a bear pop out of the thickets. It’s likely Bosko will attempt a retreat in event a bear does cross our path but I would at least like to think I’m semi-protected from an unknown assailant, man or beast.
The Bog across from our home, is a natural softener between the hard urban realities of the modern community, and the gentle graces of Muskoka hinterland I adore. In a subdivision agreement made between developers and the town, the green belt was to be protected as parkland in perpetuity for the common good of the neighborhood. The concept of park to most residents has been to keep the site in its natural flora and fauna.
I will often wander over into the woods at sunset to watch the amazing spray of late afternoon light, especially in the autumn, paint the scene with a sepia tone of historic, nostalgic grace, such that you might think, for a moment you’ve slipped back in time, to be found in the middle of a forest in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, or a haunted woodland in Maine, Connecticut, or Quebec. Here it is, this amazing vista, in the South Muskoka region of my hometown, Gravenhurst. I might expect to find an artist sitting on the embankment overlooking The Bog, or witness a mandolin player composing in an alcove of old leaning birches made famous in that Robert Frost poem of the same name. A poet-writer might be comfortably settled on a grassy knoll to confront the west wind, and confront the spirits on their invasion of darkening hollows through the forest. This has always been a haunted place. If Tom Thomson had painted this same scene of hardwood and evergreen in winter, it would be a portrait of enchantment. If Robert Frost had strolled through these grounds on a snowy evening, he would have stopped and been inspired by the tranquility and silence offered by laden boughs. If a wandering musician had taken this path from here to there, the melody would have been romantic, sweet and reminiscent. A song inspired by illusion and analogy. If the philosopher pondered the woods at sunrise, from the hazy alcove above the tumbled over birches, it would be revealed insightfully, there is much to be learned about life generating from death; much to be gained as a watcher in the woods.
I can visit The Bog five or six times each day and enjoy the differences of light and shadow, sound and silence. It may be silvery and misted-over at daybreak because of the frigid moist air, yet be dripping with nourishing golden droplets just shy of noon. I have stood on the slight elevation of land, overlooking the entire Bog, and watched the wind off the lake rip away the rotting birches and tired old pines, and beat the cat-tails into a white oblivion, as golden grasses are thrashed in waves over the frozen earth. I’ve sat in the shade afforded by these evergreens on miserably hot July afternoons, and recall the sad feelings that encroach, watching the painted autumn leaves come mournfully down, in long, slowly descending spirals, from the azure blue canopy of sky in late September. How inspiring it is to watch the strong sunglow fracture down through the ice-cover on the little creek that winds through this valley, in April, and what great rise of life it exudes, when the peepers have made their presence known, and crickets sing through the night. I’ve stood out in the centre of this Bog in the light of the silvery moon, the full moon, the harvest moon, the winter moon, and felt privileged to have this wee bit of nature to buffer the urban life thrust upon me.
I have fought many environmental battles in my life, particularly in the region of Muskoka, but I have saved up the fight of a lifetime to save The Bog, should some future council decide to rip this nature away in the name of progress. There is nothing man-made that can be better than what exists here today. It is a sanctuary for both man and beast. A sanctuary of a trillion little life forms from plant to aquatic, thriving in a remarkable eco-system only metres from the trail of tarmac that divides rural and urban existence.
As a curious wee lad prone to getting into any number of sticky wickets on any given day, growing up in an urban neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario, I used to spend most of my free time in the valley sliced in two by the black ribbon of Ramble Creek. It was a shallow, frothing gem of glittering stretches and small crystalline waterfalls, a few deep, dark pools where suckers used to thrive, and many flat rock stepping-stones to cross all the way down toward the open expanse of Lake Ontario. We were in our own world down there, and it was marvelous. The adventures we had! And when told repeatedly not to cross through the tunnel beneath Lakeshore Boulevard, and onto the shore of Lake Ontario, well, I stood on that rocky shore hundreds of time despite so many parental warnings.
When I moved to Bracebridge, Ontario in the mid-1960’s, I played in two particular woodlands in our Hunts Hill neighborhood; one being The Grove, and the other being Bamford’s Woods, named after the owner of the rental cottages on the eastern corner of the small block. It wasn’t a big slice of land but there were enough trees and places to hide from our enemies (mostly parents), that it became a favorite respite from whatever was hounding us at the time. I dodged a lot of chores and homework hiding up a tree in Bamford’s Woods. The Grove was a shared safe haven with another local kids’ gang, older than us, who knew a lot about “girl-guy” relations, and cigarettes. We were the “no smoking – no girls” gang.
In Gravenhurst, I came a little late in life to be hiding in the woodlands from my daily chores and business responsibilities. Still, I found the small acreage of open space across from our Gravenhurst home, ideal for stealing away for an hour or so, and wandering down and around the large basin of bog thriving with all sorts of hinterland creatures. My young boys loved to escape into these woods and we have always considered it a great asset of our urban subdivision, to have this green belt directly across from our modest abode. Since we arrived here in the late 1980’s, this birch and evergreen forest and lowland has been my greatest single source of writing inspiration. Every season of the year blossoms in its own magnificent way, throughout this small, haunted woodland setting. There are amazing portals along the paths, where I settle down to watch over the lowland in transition. How pleasing it is to watch the deer graze, the squirrels tossing back and forth through the tree-tops and the birds, the crows and blue jays particularly, calling all day long from the uppermost branches.
Just as folks watched my youthful silhouette float along the pathways of our neighborhood woodlands of once, I’m sure I draw as much attention today, skulking down into the moor and meandering wherever the tree cover and terrain affords safe passage. I quest into the woods these days with my canine companion, Bosko, a part border collie etc., that keeps me guarded should a bear pop out of the thickets. It’s likely Bosko will attempt a retreat in event a bear does cross our path but I would at least like to think I’m semi-protected from an unknown assailant, man or beast.
The Bog across from our home, is a natural softener between the hard urban realities of the modern community, and the gentle graces of Muskoka hinterland I adore. In a subdivision agreement made between developers and the town, the green belt was to be protected as parkland in perpetuity for the common good of the neighborhood. The concept of park to most residents has been to keep the site in its natural flora and fauna.
I will often wander over into the woods at sunset to watch the amazing spray of late afternoon light, especially in the autumn, paint the scene with a sepia tone of historic, nostalgic grace, such that you might think, for a moment you’ve slipped back in time, to be found in the middle of a forest in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, or a haunted woodland in Maine, Connecticut, or Quebec. Here it is, this amazing vista, in the South Muskoka region of my hometown, Gravenhurst. I might expect to find an artist sitting on the embankment overlooking The Bog, or witness a mandolin player composing in an alcove of old leaning birches made famous in that Robert Frost poem of the same name. A poet-writer might be comfortably settled on a grassy knoll to confront the west wind, and confront the spirits on their invasion of darkening hollows through the forest. This has always been a haunted place. If Tom Thomson had painted this same scene of hardwood and evergreen in winter, it would be a portrait of enchantment. If Robert Frost had strolled through these grounds on a snowy evening, he would have stopped and been inspired by the tranquility and silence offered by laden boughs. If a wandering musician had taken this path from here to there, the melody would have been romantic, sweet and reminiscent. A song inspired by illusion and analogy. If the philosopher pondered the woods at sunrise, from the hazy alcove above the tumbled over birches, it would be revealed insightfully, there is much to be learned about life generating from death; much to be gained as a watcher in the woods.
I can visit The Bog five or six times each day and enjoy the differences of light and shadow, sound and silence. It may be silvery and misted-over at daybreak because of the frigid moist air, yet be dripping with nourishing golden droplets just shy of noon. I have stood on the slight elevation of land, overlooking the entire Bog, and watched the wind off the lake rip away the rotting birches and tired old pines, and beat the cat-tails into a white oblivion, as golden grasses are thrashed in waves over the frozen earth. I’ve sat in the shade afforded by these evergreens on miserably hot July afternoons, and recall the sad feelings that encroach, watching the painted autumn leaves come mournfully down, in long, slowly descending spirals, from the azure blue canopy of sky in late September. How inspiring it is to watch the strong sunglow fracture down through the ice-cover on the little creek that winds through this valley, in April, and what great rise of life it exudes, when the peepers have made their presence known, and crickets sing through the night. I’ve stood out in the centre of this Bog in the light of the silvery moon, the full moon, the harvest moon, the winter moon, and felt privileged to have this wee bit of nature to buffer the urban life thrust upon me.
I have fought many environmental battles in my life, particularly in the region of Muskoka, but I have saved up the fight of a lifetime to save The Bog, should some future council decide to rip this nature away in the name of progress. There is nothing man-made that can be better than what exists here today. It is a sanctuary for both man and beast. A sanctuary of a trillion little life forms from plant to aquatic, thriving in a remarkable eco-system only metres from the trail of tarmac that divides rural and urban existence.
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