Sam Kilburn and Harry Macfie of Wasa Wasa and Windermere Muskoka

A LITTLE BIT MUSKOKA, A LITTLE BIT ADVENTURE, "WASA-WASA" A TALE OF TRAILS AND TREASURE

WINDERMERE, MUSKOKA GETS MENTION IN 1951 BOOK BY AUTHORS HARRY MACFIE AND HANS G. WESTERLAND

     As far as "Wasa-Wasa" goes, I think it is one of our best sellers, of antiquated Muskoka-themed books. It seems a lot of folks knew of the exploits of adventurer Harry MacFie, and his partner in the wilds, Sam Kilburn, who for a short period, lived in cabin near the shore of Lake Rosseau in the Village of Windermere. In fact, he was the gentleman who taught Suzanne's father, Norman Stripp, how to swim, in the summer that he dwelled there, as a home he thought might become a permanent residence. The story is that Kilburn tossed the young Norman into the lake, where he was forced to, as they say, think quickly, about the options of either sinking or swimming. There was a family relation between Sam Kilburn and the pioneer Longhurst family, of Windermere and area, and over the years, we have provided the family with numerous copies from our own collection. The Muskoka and Windermere content of the book is relatively small, yet, as you will read, it is quite poignant all told, despite its limited scope. It is a well regarded Canadian biography, originally published in Sweden at the end of the Second World War, and in english, in 1951, published by George Allen & Unwin, of London, England. The reason I'm writing about this book today, is that we found a copy, at a local second hand shop yesterday, that actually had its dustjacket. In fact, this was the first time Suzanne and I have found a copy with the dustjacket, and it was pretty much what we had imagined. Some dustjackets were made of poor paper stock and could not stand-up to rough handling, ripping and losing integrity early in the book's shelf life. Trillions of paper book covers were simply removed as annoyances, by their owners, and tossed into the garbage. Fortunately, this one survived, and we are delighted.
     In the book's introduction, written by Hans G. Westerlund, he notes that, "Harry Macfie is a Swede, though descended from a very old Scottish Highland family, one of whom (his grandfather) emigrated to Sweden in the first half of the nineteenth century. Harry went to America in 1897 and subsequently lived in Canada and Alaska during the years of the worst gold rush. His reason for emigrating was, he says, 'a longing for real adventures among gold-diggers and trappers.' I myself came into touch with Macfie through the manufacture of Canadian canoes, which he later carried on, in his home at Lyckorna. On a visit to him, there I obtained some glimpses of his life in the wilds of Canada, and this made me ask if he had not material for a book. He had indeed been urged to write his memoirs and made one or two attempts to start, but nothing more had come of it. We agreed that we should try to make ourselves free for a longer meeting, at which he would talk and I would write. Six months later, I received a typescript from him. He had written the story himself.
     "I at once put aside all other work and set about turning this, as it seemed to me, remarkable book into correct Swedish. (His Swedish had been strongly influenced by many years spent in an English-speaking country. I need hardly say that everything is described exactly as it reached me. With regard to Sam Kilburn, I should like to quote a letter from Macfie. 'Sam was born in Manchester in 1877; his mother was a Highlander and her name was Cameron. The Camerons and Macfies were closely related and fought together at Culloden against the Duke of Cumberland's army in 1745. 'But it was not this that made us such good friends. It was his sterling character and solid culture. He was always a complete gentleman; he was good-looking, somewhat over middle-height, brown-eyed, dark skinned, exceptionally strong and active. He enjoyed all that was good but would tolerate no injustice, took a bright view of life despite many reverses, laughed in the hour of danger and played with death many a time; sang and was cheerful though we nearly starved and froze to death, and often declaimed passages from Shakespeare by the camp fire'."
     In chapter one, under the heading "Wasa-Wasa," Harry Macfie writes, "Before me lies a postcard, yellowed with age, stamped all over in green, red and black. Feldpostkarte, Kriegsgefangenen-Sendung, Hilfs-Lazarelt. In the circle of the postmark is 'Magdeburg 19-7-17.' The sender is 1147 Sergeant Kilburn, S. On the other side of the card the message begins: 'Dear Harry, I am still in the land of the living, a prisoner of war in a German hospital.' That was a long time ago, but all the same I will try to write about Sam, the best friend and partner any many ever had - my partner more than a quarter of a century ago, with a dog sledge in the cold polar nights under the flicker of the northern lights, paddling a canoe down foaming rapids and across broad forest lakes by the light of the midnight sun.
     "The years have slipped away, and it is already a long time since the World War ended. After the conclusion of peace, I sought my friend in vain. The only information I could get was from the British regiment to which he had belonged; there I was told that he had been released and had probably returned to Canada. I sent letters to him to a number of places, but they came back through the dead letter office. He had disappeared without trace," writes Harry Macfie. "Years passed, and one day I was back at Seattle, on the Pacific coast. The city had grown enormously since I was there last, and I sought in vain for the little boarding house where Sam and I had stayed before we went off to the gold-fields in Northern Alaska. Where it had stood there was now a large modern hotel, and I took a room there for the days I was to stay in Seattle. It was evening, and I was looking out from my window over the twinkling lights of the city. The old totem poles from the far north still stood on the three-cornered strip of grass in front of the hotel. I looked at the grotesque beasts which were carved out of the huge trunk - clumsy bears, gigantic birds with long beaks and spread wings - all gaudily coloured and curious to behold. I knew them all so well; it was as though time had stood still, and we were on our way north again. From the harbour below I heard the dull hooting of some steamer coming in or going out, perhaps northward bound.
     "The totem pole outside my window brought memories crowding through my mind, one after another. A violent urge seized me, the call of the wild. Once more I saw the great forests and desolate plains, the roaring rapids, snow-fields, mountains and flashing northern lights; a camp fire, snow-shoes stuck into the snow, beside it, with two pair of moccasins hung on them to dry, the sledge close at hand and the dogs lying by it. I woke to reality again, and found myself sitting in my hotel room. The flashes outside were not the northern lights, but sparks from the overhead tram wires. As I sat there and a long train of memories passed through my mind, I suddenly recollected that Sam on some occasion, had spoken of having stayed with relatives at Windermere when he arrived in Canada from England. But whereabouts in that great country was Windermere? It was probably an insignificant little place; at any rate I had never heard of it. I went out into the city and discovered that there was a Windermere in Canada - in Muskoka, Ontario. If Sam was still alive perhaps he was there. I wrote at once to the postmaster at Windermere, asking if Sam was by any chance living there, and asked him to send me a reply to the Vancouver Hotel (B.C.), where I expected to arrive in a few days."
     MacFie continues, "Rather more than a week later, I put up at this hotel. Several letters were waiting for me, among them one in a writing I knew very well, though I had not seen it for many, many years. The letter was from Sam himself. I hastened up to my room and sat down to read. The letter was not long, but it told me a great deal and ended with the words, 'Come soon.' If I could, I would have started that very evening, for what did distance matter now? But my business detained me, and it was nearly two months before I was speeding eastwards from Vancouver by the night train. Next morning the train was winding its way up the first mountains, the Coast Range, and on through passes and canyons and over bridges at dizzy heights. Places I knew well of old slipped past - Sicamous, Revelstoke, Lake Louise, Banff. Then we rolled down the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains to the town of Calgary, passed all the other prairie towns, Winnipeg last of all, and so on eastward. Day and night the train rushed on at high speed, and after four days and nights, I arrived one morning in Toronto. The same evening I travelled up to Muskoka by another line, arriving there next day. There I boarded a small steamer for the last stage of my journey, a three hours' trip to Windermere across the lake of the same name (Not Lake Windermere as in England, but instead Lake Rosseau). It was midsummer and hot; the lake was blue and beautiful, framed by wonderful leafy woods. At last we arrived and the boat came alongside the little pier.
     "Although I had not let Sam know when I was coming, I nevertheless thought that he might perhaps be down at the pier. But I looked for him in vain. Then I went up to the little post office and found the postmaster. I did not say at once who I was; I only asked where Sam Kilburn lived. The postmaster looked at me for a moment, then held out his shrivelled old hand to me and said: 'I know quite well who you are. You're Sam's friend, and I've heard a lot about you from him. Come on, I'll show you where your friend lives.' He went ahead of me along a path which wound uphill. When we had crossed the plateau on the summit he pointed down into the valley on the other side. 'Your friend lives in that little bungalow you see down there, under the big sugar maples. I won't come with you any further. You must meet along after all these years, but we shall see one another again.' He shook hands cordially, turned about and went. I stood looking down into the valley. It was a mass of verdure and blossoms of the richest colours, and the scent of the flowers reached me even where I stood. Sam's little cabin lay in a sea of roses. I walked down the path, came to the fence, opened the gate and went in between flowering rose-bushes. The cabin door opened and Sam came out. He did not see me, but went and sat down on a bench alone one of the walls. He sat there in the sunshine gazing out into space. I saw that his thoughts were far away. My old friend had aged. How much he must have been through and endured since we parted by the Bering Sea twenty-five long years ago!"
     The authors explains, "Then I went forward. He only sat looking at me, as I advanced through the blossoming garden, but when i said, 'Well Sam, I've come,' and he heard my voice, all his weariness vanished. With one leap he was in my arms and gave me a regular bear's hug to the detriment of his roses and other flowers. Our joy at meeting again was great and profound. 'As you see,' said Sam, after an interval, when we had both recovered our composure to some extend, 'there's not much left of your old partner.' He was right. The ring in his voice and the gleam of his eye were still there, but his splendid physique had gone for ever."
     We will continue the story of Sam Kilburn and Harry MacFie in tomorrow's blog. Please join me.