RURAL HARDSHIPS AT THE CORE OF OUR MUSKOKA IDENTITY - IT'S A CULTURAL TRAIT WE CHOOSE, IN THE POLITICAL, ECONOMIC SENSE, TO ABANDON
WE CAME TO MUSKOKA, AS A FAMILY, PRETTY MUCH AS DOWNTRODDEN, STRESSED, EXHAUSTED URBAN REFUGES. MY PARENTS WANTED A BETTER LIFE FOR THEIR SON, AND FELT THAT MOVING TO MUSKOKA WOULD GIVE ME OPPORTUNITIES, I WOULDN'T HAVE EVER HAD GROWING UP IN THE CITY. IMAGINE THAT! IT'S USUALLY THE OTHER WAY AROUND. BUT THEY WERE WORK-WEARY, AND COMMUTING CONSIDERABLE DISTANCES FROM BURLINGTON EACH DAY, TO THEIR RESPECTIVE PLACES OF EMPLOYMENT. MY MOTHER WORKED AT A HAMILTON BANK, AND MY FATHER WORKED AT A HAMILTON LUMBER COMPANY. WHEN ANN NAGY WASN'T LOOKING AFTER ME, WHEN WE LIVED AT THE APARTMENTS, SHE AND HER HUSBAND OWNED, UP ON HARRIS CRESCENT, IN BURLINGTON, I WAS A GENUINE, ALL CANADIAN, CIRCA 1960'S "LATCH-KEY-KID." I HAD A KEY STRUNG AROUND MY NECK, THAT USED TO GIVE ME A RASH. I REFUSED TO WEAR IT OUTSIDE MY SHIRT, BECAUSE MY CLASSMATES WOULD TRY TO RIP IT OFF THE STRING. I PLAYED IN CITY PARKS, SWAM AT A CITY POOL, WENT TO A CITY SCHOOL, GOT BEAT UP BY CITY BULLIES, AND PLAYED ORGANIZED HOCKEY, ON AN OPEN AIR KIWANIS RINK, AT GET THIS, FOUR IN THE MORNING, ON SATURDAYS.
YES INDEED, MY PARENTS THOUGHT THAT A RURAL WAY OF LIFE WOULD HAVE SOME ADVANTAGES TO A KID LIKE ME. AND GIVE THEM A LITTLE MORE DOWN-TIME, WITH REDUCED STRESS, TO THEN HAVE ONLY A FEW BLOCKS TO TRAVEL TO WORK, AND WHERE THE TALLEST BUILDING IN TOWN WAS THREE FLOORS, BECAUSE THAT WAS THE FURTHEST EXTENSION OF THE FIRE BRIGADE'S TALLEST LADDER. IT WAS A SMALL COMMUNITY THAT BELIEVED PATIENCE WAS A HONKING BIG VIRTUE, AND THAT CITY SLICKERS WERE WELCOME TO STAY BEHIND AFTER THE TOURIST SEASON, IF THEY FELL IN LINE. MEANING, THEY COULD RATTLE THE CHANGE IN THEIR POCKETS, AND SPIN THEIR KEY CHAINS TO GET ATTENTION, AND NONE WOULD BE FORTHCOMING. IN OTHER WORDS, THE REQUIREMENT, WAS TO SLOW DOWN, SMELL THE COFFEE, TAKE TIME TO CHAT WITH NEIGHBORS, NEVER BE IN TOO MUCH OF A HURRY AT THE GROCERY STORE, AND DON'T EXPECT A BOOST FOR YOUR CAR, WITHIN TEN MINUTES (OR A DAY) OF MAKING THE PHONE CALL FOR ASSISTANCE. MY PARENTS LEARNED QUICKLY, THAT TO BE A LOCAL, MEANT YOU HAD TO UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANT TO BE LOCAL; TO LIVE RURALLY AND HAVE LESS SERVICES AND OPTIONS THAN RESIDING IN A METROPOLIS. THERE WERE TRADE-OFFS OF COURSE. I PLAYED MY HOCKEY LATE ON SATURDAY MORNINGS, IN MY NEW HOMETOWN, SOMETIMES EVEN IN THE EVENINGS, (PRIME TIME) AND EVEN PRACTICES WERE WEEK NIGHTS, FOR A FULL HOUR OR MORE. MY FATHER LEARNED HOW TO WALK TO WORK, WHEN THE CAR WOULDN'T START, (AT THIRTY BELOW), AND MY MOTHER EVEN TOOK ADVANTAGE OF THE CREDIT BOOK, AT MUSKOKA TRADING, TO GET OUR GROCERIES, AND PAY LATER. WE WERE BROKE A LOT IN THOSE EARLY DAYS, IN A NEW COMMUNITY, AND GADS, HOW GREAT IT WAS TO BE IN A PLACE, WHERE RESIDENTS WERE HAPPY THE WAY IT WAS; HAVING NO DESIRE TO BECOME OF THE CITY-ILK, JUST BECAUSE THERE WAS THIS IDEA THEY'D HAVE BETTER JOBS, AND MORE MONEY TO FINANCE THINGS LIKE EXTRAVAGANT VACATIONS. THEY LIKED LIVING RURALLY, AND EVEN LIVING IN TOWN, YOU WERE ONLY A SHORT HIKE TO THE NEAREST FARM, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD'S GLORIOUS STAND OF THICK PINES. IT WAS HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR ME, IN THOSE FIRST FEW YEARS OF ADJUSTMENT. MY PARENTS HAD MADE THE RIGHT DECISION FOR THEIR SON, THAT'S FOR SURE. IT'S WHY I TAKE ANY OPPORTUNITY AFFORDED ME, TODAY, EVEN IF I HAVE TO STEAL SOME TIME, AND THUNDER FROM OTHERS USUALLY MORE VOCAL THAN ME, TO REMIND THEM THAT WE WERE ALL RURAL AS A CHARACTER REALITY, AND TIME HONORED TRADITION, BACK IN THOSE HOMESTEAD DAYS. WE OWE RESPECT TO THOSE PIONEERS, WHO GAVE US THE URBAN HUBS WE HAVE TODAY. IT'S A LONG STORY, AND THERE'S NO NEED TO REPEAT, WHAT I'VE BEEN WRITING ABOUT FOR DECADES. SUFFICE TO SAY, I SEE AND FEEL SOMETHING ABOUT OUR HINTERLAND, AND THOSE OLD FARMSTEADS, THAT KEEPS ME RESPECTFUL, OF WHAT THE MUSKOKA LIFESTYLE WAS IN THE BEGINNING, AND IN ESSENCE, CONTINUES IN MANY AREAS OF OUR PRESENT DISTRICT.
IF BY CHANCE, (IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN) I HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO SIT DOWN WITH THE MANAGEMENT OF THE LOCAL MEDIA OUTLETS, AND GIVEN A FEW MINUTES, BETWEEN THEIR SIPS OF COFFEE, AND NIBBLES OF DONUTS, TO PITCH FOR A RETURN TO SOME OF THE OLD WAYS, OF NEWSPAPER OUTREACH, TO THE RURAL AREAS OF OUR REGION, WELL FOLKS, I CAN JUST IMAGINE THE RECEPTION AFTER THE FIRST FIVE MINUTES OF MY PRESENTATION. FIRST THE YAWNING, AND THEN THE TALKING TO ONE ANOTHER, CHECKING CELL PHONES FOR ANYTHING MORE ENGAGING THAN A FORMER EDITOR, YAPPING ABOUT THE MOTH EATED, MOLDY TRADITIONS AND STUFF, I'M HOPELESS STUCK ON! HOW DOES BEING RESPONSIVE TO THE NEEDS OF THE RURAL COMMUNITIES, MAKE MONEY FOR SHAREHOLDERS? HONESTLY, I COULD CREATE A PRETTY COMPELLING ARGUMENT, WHY THE MEDIA SHOULD BE EAGER TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF A GROWING RURAL POPULATION IN MUSKOKA. THAT'S RIGHT! FOLKS TIRED OF URBAN DWELLING, AND URBAN RELATED PROBLEMS, ARE FINDING THEIR WALDEN PONDS OUT THERE, IN THE HINTERLAND, AND I'M DELIGHTED TO SEE A NEW RESPECT FOR THE COUNTRY WAY OF LIFE. I HAVEN'T SEEN SO MUCH RURAL BUILDING ACTIVITY IN DECADES, AND IT'S RATHER EXCITING. THE LOTS ARE NICELY APPOINTED WITH NATIVE FLORA AND FAUNA, AND BIG; AND SOME OF THE NEW HOUSES, ESPECIALLY ON SANTA'S VILLAGE ROAD, IN BRACEBRIDGE, HAVE SET THEIR BUILDING FOUNDATIONS DOWN WITHOUT TOO MUCH DESTRUCTION, OF THE TREES, ON THESE PICTURESQUE PROPERTIES. IT'S ALWAYS NICE TO SEE A RESPECT FOR THE NATURAL SURROUNDINGS OF MUSKOKA, AND AT LEAST IN THIS SMALL AREA OF RURAL BRACEBRIDGE, THE HOUSES HAVE BEEN INTEGRATED WITH CONSIDERABLE RESPECT FOR OUR NATURAL RESOURCES. SO AS FAR AS INVESTMENT RETURN, I THINK THE FUTURE INTEREST IN RURAL LIVING, IS GOING TO BECOME A SERIOUS TREND, BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT OF OPEN SPACE OUT THERE BEYOND THE URBAN BOUNDARIES, AND IT'S PROBABLY, IN MANY CASES, CHEAPER TO BUILD WHAT YOU WANT, THESE DAYS, THAN BUY HIGH PRICED, EXISTING HOMES, ON FULL TOWN SERVICES. I'M NOT A REAL ESTATE EXPERT, SO I'LL LEAVE THIS ONE ALONE.
I DO THINK THAT THE RURAL POPULATION WAS UNFAIRLY DISCONNECTED FROM THE MUSKOKA MEDIA, QUITE A FEW YEARS BACK, WHEN THE COUNTRY CORRESPONDENTS WERE REDUCED TO A FRACTION OF THE NUMBER, WE ONCE PUBLISHED, EVERY SINGLE WEEK OF THE YEAR, IN THE FORMER HERALD-GAZETTE, AND AS WELL, THE BRACEBRIDGE EXAMINER. IT GOES BACK A LOT MORE YEARS THAN THE EARLY 1980'S. RIGHT FROM THE BEGINNING, LOCAL PUBLICATIONS KNEW THE IMPORTANCE OF THE RURAL READERSHIP, AND THEY DEPENDED ON THE PAPERS TO KEEP INFORMED ABOUT WHAT WAS GOING ON EVERYWHERE ELSE. WHETHER IT WAS THE BEATRICE TOWN LINE NEWS, THE WINDERMERE NEWS, UTTERSON WEST ROAD, MILFORD BAY, BARKWAY, PORT CARLING, PORT SYDNEY, ULLSWATER, ROSSEAU, DORSET, BAYSVILLE, OR FALKENBURG WOMENS INSTITUTED NEWS, THEY KEPT THEMSELVES INFORMED, AND US UP TO SPEED WITH WHAT WAS GOING ON, IN OTHER PARTS OF MUSKOKA. FAR APART IN DISTANCE, BUT MUCH CLOSER VIA NEWS. READERS WERE IMPORTANT. CONTRIBUTORS WERE IMPORTANT. IT WAS A DAY AND AGE, AND PRETTY BIG TRADITION, TO HAVE A MAIN BUSINESS AREA NEWSPAPER OFFICE, AND AN EASILY ACCESSED EDITORIAL AND ADVERTISING DEPARTMENT. BY OLD FASHIONED WALK-IN SERVICE. TODAY, THESE RURAL AREAS ARE MORE ISOLATED, IN MANY WAYS, THAN EVER BEFORE, EVEN WITH NEW TECHNOLOGIES. BUT IF WHAT I SEE OUT THERE NOW, OF RURAL BUILDING, THE TIME MAY BE COMING, WHEN AN OLDTIMER LIKE ME, MIGHT JUSTIFIABLY, HAVE A LITTLE BUSINESS ADVICE, THAT STOPS THE YAWNING IN THE BOARD ROOM.
I WAS THINKING THE SAME, ABOUT SITTING DOWN WITH THOSE CANDIDATES FOR MUNICIPAL OFFICE, IN THE OCTOBER ELECTIONS IN MUSKOKA, AND TRYING TO EXPLAIN THE IMPORTANCE OF GREATER RECOGNITION OF THE RURAL AREAS; AT A TIME, FRANKLY, WHEN THE URBAN AREAS ARE EATING UP MOST OF THE TAX DOLLARS, AND DOMINATING FUTURE-MINDEDNESS, BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE MOST OF THE COMMERCE RESIDES. I WAS WONDERING OUT LOUD TO SON ROBERT, JUST NOW, ABOUT HOW MANY CANDIDATES FOR MUNICIPAL OFFICE, THE MAYORAL CANDIDATES AND THE DISTRICT COUNCILLORS SPECIFICALLY, WILL BE TRAVELING DOOR TO DOOR IN THE RURAL AREAS; OR JUST HAMMERING IN THOSE DAFT LOOKING ELECTION SIGNS THAT ARE NOTHING MORE THAN VISUAL POLLUTION? OUT OF THE GRAVENHURST REGISTRANTS TO RUN IN THE MUNICIPAL ELECTION, HOW MANY PLAN TO GO DOOR TO DOOR ANYWAY. WE'VE ONLY HAD ONE CANDIDATE VISIT, AND THAT WAS STEPHEN KLINCK, WALKING INTO OUR SHOP WITH OUTSTRETCHED HAND. WE LIKED THE FACT HE TOOK TIME TO VISIT, AND ASK US IF WE HAD ANY QUESTIONS ABOUT HIS ELECTION PLATFORM. NOW THAT WAS AN OLD FASHIONED THING TO DO, FOR A YOUNG FELLOW, FRESH OUT OF SCHOOL, AND WE WONDERED WHY NO OTHER CANDIDATE HAD DONE THE SAME. IT'S AN OLD TIME, COUNTRY WAY OF RUNNING FOR OFFICE. IT'S CALLED "MAIN-STREETING." IT'S THE NEIGHBOURLY THING TO DO. IT SHOWS SOME CARE FOR THE MAIN BUSINESS CORRIDOR, AND GIVES RESPECT TO THE TRADITIONAL HUB OF SMALL TOWN ONTARIO. IT'S HARDLY JUST A RURAL TRADITION, BUT MAKE NO MISTAKE, IT IS A COUNTRY WAY OF MEETING UP WITH FOLKS, AND SEEKING THEIR SUPPORT. INSTEAD, MOST CANDIDATES PREFER THE "I'VE POUNDED MY SIGN INTO THE GROUND, I'M DONE," APPROACH. DO WE EXPECT OTHERS TO DROP BY OUR MAIN STREET SHOP. I THINK THEY'RE RUNNING URBAN STYLE CAMPAIGNS THESE DAYS, AND IF I CARED TO LOOK, I'D LIKELY FIND THEM ONLINE, INSTEAD OF IN-PERSON. I DON'T THINK OUR DOOR WILL BE KNOCKED DOWN BY ALL THE POLITICAL SEASON VISITS. ANYWAY, MOST OF THEM THINK I BITE, AND CAN CAUSE ULCERS, BECAUSE OF MY DEFIANT COUNTERPOINTS TO WHATEVER THEY HAPPEN TO BLURT WITHOUT THINKING. BUT THE SAD REALITY IS, MOST OF THE INITIATIVE TODAY, IS TO HAVE SIGNS PRINTED, PAY FOR THEM, ATTACH THEM TO WOODEN POSTS, WITH NAILS, OR SLIPPING THEM INTO METAL STANDS, TO THEN, UNCEREMONIOUSLY, POUND THEM INTO SOMEONE'S LAWN. NOT MINE! GOING DOOR TO DOOR IS TOO MUCH WORK I SUPPOSE. AND IT MAKES THEM PARTICULARLY VULNERABLE. FOR GOSH SAKES, SOME ROGUE CONSTITUENT MIGHT STUMP THEM WITH A QUESTION. OR HIT THEM WITH A FRESHLY BAKED LOAF OF BREAD. OR PIE. WE CAN'T HAVE THAT, CAN WE? BUT MAYBE, BEFORE THE ELECTION, SOME OF THE CANDIDATES COULD READ A FEW CHAPTERS, FROM FORMER MUSKOKA M.P.P., GORDON AITKEN'S BOOK, "THE RETURNING OFFICER," WHICH GIVES A PRETTY FAIR RUN-DOWN OF WHAT IT WAS LIKE OUT THERE, ON THE RURAL HUSTINGS, WHEN OUR REGION WAS MOSTLY COUNTRYSIDE; MILES AND MILES BETWEEN VOTERS. RURAL ISSUES ARE GOING TO COME TO THE FOREFRONT VERY SOON, AS THIS BUILDING INTEREST CONTINUES, SO FUTURE COUNCILLORS SHOULD BONE UP, ABOUT THE TRADITIONS I WRITE AND TALK ABOUT, WITH CONSIDERABLE PRIDE. WE HAVE IN MANY WAYS, ISOLATED THE RURAL DWELLERS OF OUR REGION, BECAUSE THEY AREN'T BIG SOURCES OF REVENUE. YOU SEE, IN MY DAY, WE HAD TO SELL THESE FOLKS NEWSPAPER SUBSCRIPTIONS, AND IF WE PUBLISHED THE RURAL NEWS IN THEIR NEIGHBORHOODS, THEY AGREED TO BUY OUR NEWSPAPER. THAT'S HOW WE GOT OUR PAID CIRCULATION NUMBERS. WE DIDN'T GIVE THEM AWAY FREE. WE ENJOYED A LARGE RURAL READERSHIP, AND WE VERY MUCH BENEFITTED FROM HAVING THE RURAL CORRESPONDENTS, AS PART OF OUR MEDIA SERVICE. I'M GLAD I HAD THIS OPPORTUNITY TO WORK WITH THESE KINDLY FOLKS, AT THIS TRANSITIONAL TIME, WHO LOVED THEIR HAMLETS, VILLAGES, CROSSROADS' SETTLEMENTS, AND RURAL ROUTE ADDRESSES; AND WE LIKED SHARING THEIR NEWS, WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY WHO LIVED IN THE URBAN AREAS. JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE LIVED IN BRACEBRIDGE, DIDN'T MEAN THEY WEREN'T INTERESTED IN WHAT MRS. WEIR WAS WRITING ABOUT, FOR EXAMPLE, IN HER UTTERSON WEST ROAD COLUMN; OR MRS. WESLEY REBMAN WAS RECOLLECTING OF THE PAST WEEK, IN HER BARKWAY COLUMN. IT WAS SHARING OF NEWS, AND YES, FOR THOSE YOUNG NEWSPAPER FOLKS, WHO DON'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE, WELL SIR, IT WAS ABOUT THE STEWARDSHIP OF LONGSTANDING TRADITIONS. WE THOUGHT WE WERE PROGRESSIVE IN THIS FASHION, AND THAT TIME HONORED TRADITIONS DESERVED OUR RESPECT. SERIOUSLY. SO YAWN AT ME, AND CALL ME FATHER TIME, BUT IT WAS WRONG TO CUT OFF THE NEWSPAPER OUTREACH TO OUR HUGE RURAL COMMUNITY; IN FAVOR OF INTENSIVE URBAN PREOCCUPATIONS, WHICH AREN'T ALL THEY'RE CRACKED UP TO BE. I ASK THIS QUESTION ONCE MORE. HOW MANY CANDIDATES SEEKING ELECTION, ESPECIALLY IN TERMS OF DISTRICT REPRESENTATION, AND THE MAYOR'S JOB, WILL BE BANGING ON THE DOORS IN WALKER'S POINT, OR GERMANIA, OR IN SEVERN BRIDGE? OR IS IT DEEMED MORE TIME AND COST EFFICIENT, TO KEEP THE DOOR KNOCKING, (IF IT'S DONE AT ALL ANYMORE), TO THE CONCENTRATED URBAN AREAS, WHERE NEIGHBORS ARE A FEW FEET APART, VERSUS MILES DISTANT FROM EACH OTHER? THEY'RE ALL CONSTITUENTS, RIGHT? THEY ALL HAVE A RIGHT TO VOTE FOR THEIR COUNCIL REPRESENTATIVES? YET THEY GET A HAMMERED-IN SIGN, THAT IS SUPPOSED TO CONVINCE THEM, TO MARK THE BALLOT BESIDE THE NAME, THEY'VE BEEN SEEING EVERY MORNING, ON THE WAY TO WORK. ONE DAY THERE WILL BE A RURAL REVOLUTION, THAT WILL FINALLY DEMONSTRATE, THAT URBAN AREAS AREN'T THE ONLY GAME IN THE BIG, BEAUTIFUL HINTERLAND DISTRICT.
WE WERE ALL RURAL IN THE 1850'S TO 1880'S!
You can never be truly progressive, or forward minded, in the leadership of our region, without first being tutored in what came first. The urban dweller, or the ruralite. In a region that began with Free Land Grants, for emigrant homesteaders, our first settlers were rural because there was no other option. The fact that population clusters occurred, was generally the result of free market speculation. There had to be a supply centre, as the hub of the rural farmsteads, that couldn't have survived without businesses to provide the basics. There are many stories told, about the brutal early paddles and portages, and dangerous travel by foot, from the interior of Muskoka, to secure supplies from Orillia, and have grains milled at Washago; until there were pioneer facilities set up in South Muskoka. In the tradition of what it means to be Muskokan, there is no way for the historian to divide urban and rural at this time of our chronicle; because even the urban dwellers in those hamlets, and villages, were living rural existences. In fact, by all definition of living rurally, our family moved to the outback of Ontario, in the late winter of 1966, when the Town of Bracebridge had 2,500 residents, and it took about three minutes driving, to hit what was definitely the rural clime. The cows in the pasture would give it away, if the pine forests, and open spaces, didn't give it away first. Even though I lived in an apartment, on east Alice Street, in what gave every appearance of an urban neighborhood, we were without any doubt, living rurally. It's what all our city-dwelling family members called it, but a little worse, when they came to visit. "For God's sake Ted, (my father) you're living in the sticks," they'd blurt at us, sitting with coffee, around the dinner table; but to my parents, who, at that point, had seen the benefits of a slower paced existence, they showed no signs of retreat. It's true enough, that they had once been deeply committed to living in the urban neighborhoods, of Southern Ontario, as their families had been hopelessly devoted in years past. I always think about this, and our family history in the city, when I drive around our area of South Muskoka now, still of the earnest belief, we live in a glorious, potential-filled rural area, and we should be immensely proud of this; versus the rising attitude, of some politicians I know, that the rural area is solely for future urban expansion, as a sort of citydom land-reserve accommodation, and not much more. I have spent a lot of editorial miles, trying to change attitudes in this regard, but have time and again, failed to either reform the local media, to my antiquated way of looking at newspaper traditions, or to convince local government officials, to look at the rural areas of the municipality, as being every bit as important, as urban neighborhoods; but "close" as they say, "only counts in horse-shoes." You see, I would have been one of those early homesteaders, if I had been around at that time. I will never lose my great sensitivity for the rural realities of our region. I know them well.
A Rural Autumn is pretty spectacular
Today is an early autumn treat for the senses. The hardwood leaves are slowly changing, as I can see now, looking across The Bog, from our verandah at Birch Hollow. The sun, when it pokes out from behind the thin cloud cover, beautifully illuminates the wetland, just beyond the border hardwoods, and small mixed pinery on the upper bank. Today reminds me of many long-ago homestead adventures, when I was in my late teens, in the mid 1970's, wanting to know more about the pioneer way of life. I needed to understand, as a fledgling historian, and eager antique collector, what it was like in the shanties and log cabins of the late 1850's, to the end of the 1870's, in the region of South Muskoka. With my then girlfriend Gail, we drove along the backroads, of Bracebridge and Gravenhurst, initially, looking for any abandoned farmsteads, especially where there were remnants of log cabins and outbuildings. What great fun that was, and we enjoyed many quiet respites, sitting on the rocks, or fallen timbers, discussing what it must have been like, to have lived in these isolated family habitations. Homesteads carved into the dark pine forests, where the closest neighbor was likely miles down the cartway. The nearest hamlet to acquire seed, supplies for sowing and harvesting, and food provisions, to make up for what couldn't be grown, or afforded at the time, may have been a full day's wagon ride, or hike through the wild woods. We both, at that time, appreciated the rural way of life, for what it didn't have; lots of trees and open space, where in the urban lifestyle, there would be lots of tarmac, noise, sirens to jack-hammers, and ticky-tacky houses, located side by side, with neighbors watching out their windows, at your every recreation.
I remember one humorous incident, when I was out homestead hunting, with my friend Bruce White, of Bracebridge, who had told me about an abandoned log cabin, near Falkenburg, just north of the urban boundary of the Town of Bracebridge. I took along some camera equipment, and basic digging devices, in case we found a dump site by happenstance, while hiking through the woods. The cabin he had told me about, wasn't too far off the road, so the walk in took a matter of minutes, versus hours. Some of the heritage sites did require some major walking time, over pretty rough terrain. On many occasions, I would just wait for the winter to set in, because it would be easier to access the sites, on snowshoes, or skis, because the wetlands would be firmly frozen over. I've spent a life time getting soakers, but for some of these isolated former homesteads, even boots weren't enough, for the kind of adverse conditions, we would have to traverse, before arriving at our destination. Hip-waders would have worked, and a hovercraft. Once I got it in my mind to visit one of these mysterious former cabin residences, I never turned back, no matter what was thrown at me. A lot of lightning for one thing. And there were some pretty aggressive critters found out there as well. It's their habitat afterall, so we always gave them lots of distance and the right of way, whenever fate put us, in a sort of on-path impasse. Some times it involved running away very fast.
When Bruce and I arrived at the fallen-in log cabin, I immediately started to take photographs. The timbers were squared by hand, and massive. Great photo evidence of pioneer handiwork. This backwoods cabin had been well built, and it would have been great to have seen it standing. We were about twenty years too late. The walls were still largely upright, although all the plaster chinking was gone, and a back section of wall, where a rear exist had been located, had rotted, and fallen to the centre of what was left of the cabin floor. The hand hewn timbers really caught my attention, so I took two rolls of film, focusing on the pioneer art, of getting these huge pine logs to mesh together tightly at the corners. Bruce and I were able to climb up the logs, to a level of about six feet off the ground, to look down into what had been the cookery area of the cabin, where there was still the rusted remainder of an iron cookstove, and stove pipes visible through the fallen woodwork. We balanced on the still-in-place timbers, Bruce being to my immediate right, where I was hanging from what had been the rear wall. I was balanced on a side portion of the remaining logs. In distance, we were probably only thirty feet apart.
You always have to be careful when you poke around these old farmsteads, because it's surprisingly easy to find the old well, and a root cellar, by making one wrong step. We always had large sticks or canes, to help us reveal major obstacles before we crossed over, piles of wood and fallen timber, just in case, a partially covered well was on the other side. We always made a lot of noise, to scare away any animals, that might, when cornered, give us some heartache, or a bite on the ass. Bruce and I had been on-site for about half an hour, by this point, and we thought, mistakenly, that the property was void, at that moment, of anything out of the ordinary that might hurt us. When Bruce shifted over, about five or so feet, toward where I was still clinging to the upright timbers, a portion of the log section broke off, and he nearly lost his balance. The sudden crack of the wood, apparently threatened something holed-up below, where he was situated. It, which had to be something of considerable substance and big teeth, wasn't happy about this intrusion.
We heard a loud, sustained, angry growl coming from somewhere below us, but nothing was visible. It got louder and more aggressive, as we froze, still awkwardly hanging off the wall. Bruce looked at me, with fright in his eyes, and he was met by the fear dancing in my own wild eyes. "What the hell was that," he asked? "I was hoping it was you," I answered, looking down to see where the sound was coming from. Obviously, there was a large animal, somewhere in the weave of timber portions, and woodwork, directly below our feet. We just couldn't be sure, which intrepid explorer, at that moment, was in most danger of being eaten. Yes it was early spring, and we did think about it being a bear den, and bear cubs huddled with mother inside. We both knew enough about bear attacks, and what they could do to the human body, so the first plan, was to do nothing quickly, because there was no way of knowing exactly where the growl was coming from, and we didn't want to exist the wrong way; right into the jaws of the hairy beast. We didn't want to be any more ill-prepared for our first visual contact, than we were, while thusly prone, tight against the slippery log wall.
Bruce let me know that if the bear appeared, being up the wall, as we were at that moment, would make us particularly easy prey, as six feet up, on logs, that it could easily climb, would be like supermarket-shopping. For a hungry bruin, we were like low hanging fruit. We decided to stay up on the wall, and slide our way to the west of the building, because the beast was clearly on the east side. It was the right move to make, because the growling sound became slightly more distant, the further west we inched, still up on the remaining length of timber. Bruce was going to jump, and run away from the wall before me. We started talking quietly, about how we would first climb down, ever so quietly; his retreat just ahead of mine. We discussed the best route to get to his truck with fewest obstacles in the way. It was like one of those horror movies, because everything from that point, went wrong. I got my sweater caught on a sliver of timber, and Bruce got his shoe caught momentarily, in the opening between the logs. The sprint through the forest to the truck, parked on the shoulder of the road, was going to be about a hundred metre dash. Bruce wasn't known for his athletic capability, so I let him know, I would tell his family he put up a good fight, and gave his life for my well being. He said, "you son of a bitch, I've got the keys to the truck. You're going to save me, or you get chased all the way back to Bracebridge."
That's the point of exit strategy, when I looked down below, and saw the clumps of bear fur, on the corner, of a rough section of pine timber, on the corner, (where bruin obviously had rubbed against for fun) right where we were planning our speedy retreat. Well, there's some benefit knowing what is going to eat you, I suppose, but I couldn't think of it at that moment. I did have a half-eaten chocolate bar, but I wasn't sure it would fill a bear up, who hadn't eaten since autumn. We both agreed, the longer we stayed around, the more likely the bear was going to emerge, to check on what choices there were for dinner. Considering there were no berries at this point, and no camper picnic baskets to steal, (Yogi Bear style), we judged that the best odds of survival, were to jump down at the same time, and sprint as a duo up the path toward the road. We'd do it quietly, so as not to sound threatening to a mother bear, protecting her cubs. It was on the count of three, but it took a couple of times, to get up the courage before it hit "abort-abort-abort!" But it was the last, huge, blood curdling growl, still way too close to us, that dislodged the two adventurers into mid-air, with a near perfect landing, and running take-off to the road. If there had been a timer, for that sprint, Bruce and I would have broken world records. I lost my hat and a shoe, but my body stayed intact. It was an old hat, with fear stains, and the shoe was falling apart anyway. Bruce had a problem getting the door unlocked, and then responding in-kind, to my fear-etched face pressed up against the side window, trying to get him to unlock the door, before combing his hair.
We sat for a few moments in the truck, looking out my window, to the opening in the pine woods, where the cabin was located. Bruce didn't see the bear emerge, but I did. It was a big sucker. My poking stick and camera wouldn't have proven much of a deterrent to what was most likely, a very angry creature, a little peckish for a couple of plump interlopers. I said a little audible prayer of thanks to God, for our good fortune, and vowed silently, to never, ever, do that kind of thing again; without one of those crazy bear suits, that was designed to challenge grizzlies. Seeing as we don't have grizzlies here, I thought it (the project grizzly suit) would be really safe, for the much smaller black bears, one encounters fairly often, here in Muskoka.
There was another incident, a year later, with soon-to-be wife, Suzanne. Yup, I nearly got her eaten as well. I decided to take her to see the family homestead, they had called Jerusalem. I wrote about this earlier in the lead-up to this short series of "Seasons of the Lilac." Bruce White had led me to the site, as an historical sleuth himself, and I had made a dozen trips to the former homestead acreage, once occupied by the family of Thomas Peacock. Bringing Suzanne this time, a few months before we were married, I thought we'd take what could be considered the long way around. We had parked on the side off High Falls Road, and a foot-trail that I knew led to the log cabin, quite a distance away. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, in late August, and we were strolling more so than hiking. Basically, we weren't paying attention to anything else, except the warming sun, the beautiful wildflowers, and the path immediately ahead. If Suzanne had not been admiring the clusters of wildflowers up ahead, and to the side, she wouldn't have seen the two bear cubs on the hillside to our right. Or better stated, to our south. At first, we just stood there admiring this amazing natural scene, on this former homestead acreage, and I think for a moment or two, I actually reached for my camera, to catch a photograph for The Herald-Gazette. I knew Bob Boyer would have liked a photo for the next issue of The Muskoka Sun. Suzanne, after some contemplation on the situation, that was getting closer, as the cubs decided to check us out, said, "I wonder where mother is!"
It was one of those "holy crap" moments, when we realized, rather poignantly, that like Laurel and Hardy, we were in "a fine mess now." It was not good that mother wasn't visible. She had to be around somewhere, and here we were standing, about fifty yards away, with two rambling cubs, and a mother undetected. The crisis, of course, was which way to exit. The cubs were right in the middle of this hillside, and so were we. We were hoping the mother bear was just over the south hillside, giving us a chance to run back to the car. Suzanne, equally, has never been an athlete. Never aspired to be one, except an occasional golfer, because she worked at a golf club, and got to play after-hours for free. I was a pretty fair sprinter, and I used to jog five kilometres every weeknight. Well, we took a gamble, as the cubs came ever closer, that our best chance to avoid conflict, was to run as quickly as our little legs would carry us, back to the car. At least we could lock ourselves in the car. The log cabin didn't have any glass in the windows. I didn't know Suzanne could run like an Olympian. She was about ten strides ahead of me, and I was wondering, while in full flight, what her personal policy was, on saving a fiance from the jaws of fate. Then I saw the mother bear, on the opposite side of the walking trail, near where we had been standing, and all of a sudden I was wing-footed, like Mercury, and soon caught up with my soon-to-be bride; my policy was clear on loved ones. If I got to the vehicle first, I would open the door for her. I think she read my mind, because she got her second wind, and hit the decline of landscape, like a horse on fire. "Hurry, the bear's coming, the bears coming," she yelled back, knowing full well it hadn't even taken a sniff in our direction. Obviously, late season berries were more desirable, than two humans, to eat right off-the-hoof.
Most often my backwoods, homestead encounters were with perceived spirit-kind, which I preferred, because of their general lack of bite. I can live with fright. It doesn't hurt!
I met a lone wolf once, on another homestead hike, but it just walked around me, with a threatening stride, but quickly judged that I was going to whine about being eaten, at such a young age, and figured it wasn't worth the hassle. So he left me alone. Nice fellow. Lots more to come, in "The Seasons of the Lilac," about Muskoka homesteads long after the fact. See you again, soon!
No comments:
Post a Comment