Who Can Honestly Admit to Never Having Had a Moment of Unexplained Magic, the Experience of Fantasy, or an Enchanting Encounter?

Birch Hollow Photo by Suzanne Currie

     When author C.S. Lewis wrote his Narnia stories for the benefit of millions of children, how did he find all that inspiration in the looks and capacities of an antique wardrobe stored in his attic? What was it that American Author, Washington Irving witnessed, from the window of his study, at Sunnyside, his residence in New York, when he wrote his folk tales of the Haunted Hudson River, and its phantom ships; what occupied his moments of quiet contemplation, as he crafted the story of Rip Van Winkle, and what gave him the inspiration to compose a tale of "Sleepy Hollow," and its imposing ghost rider, the Headless Horseman? What was Charles Dickens studying in his quiet moments before putting ink to paper, when he imagined three ghosts visiting an old Christmas-hating curmudgeon named Ebenezer Scrooge? What natural resource, in Ontario, Canada, specifically the lakeland of Muskoka, motivated revered horror writer Algernon Blackwood, to slip a little of the good life here, into one or more of his stories yet to be written? That would be a late 1800's stay at an island cottage on Lake Rosseau! 
      When I was a lot younger, and much more resilient to the physical demands of long woodland hikes, through this beautiful district, I frequently came upon situations, and imposing circumstances, where it was clear I was lost and forced to sit for awhile on some small elevation of land, to figure out if I was going north or south, maybe east or west. I was pretty good figuring it out, after a little respite in these most enchanting woodland settings. It was not uncommon for me then, once I determined which way would take me back to my ride, parked on a dirt side road, usually a couple of miles winding through old pioneer trails still visible more than a century after being cleared to serve some homesteader need. I would frequently follow these old and heavily grown over trails, often winding up at a long abandoned farm house, or even a lowly log cabin, still giving the voyeur the immediate opinion, it had served its inhabitants well for many years. The toughest years in this heavily forested, rock bound terrain, where nothing was easy, and so much was unrelenting hardship. These were all, in their own way, haunted by my own familiarity with such remote places, succumbing ever so slowly back into the land from which it was derived. I never denied these storied places, that had faithfully protected their occupying families, for long and long from the harsh environs, their right to exist in the hauntingly low light of day, entombed by the towering pines and venerable cedars; the huge maples and leaning birches, that backdropped a history the passerby could only imagine. It was never surprising to me to feel the presence of those former occupants of this place, who walked daily along the laneway just then taken, and probably resided as well, on this little knob of landscape above the pasture below.

     I can remember one particular afternoon, while lodging temporarily on a recently fallen pine tree, looking out over such a remarkable and historic scene, when from the distance, somewhere beyond the remnants of the half fallen-in farmhouse, I could hear the unmistakable revelry of children. There was no mistaking that din of happy voices in the mix of laugh and screeching of youngsters unfettered in the late afternoon; then on the final days before the school summer break. I listened to the cheerfulness of the sentimental scene, as I did the washing of the late spring breeze, wavering the tall field grasses, and stirring the broken off shutters that hung awkwardly, and unkindly from the old homestead wreathed in the debris of neglect. I was sure my sojourn was about to be interrupted by these marauding youngsters, that seemed to be getting closer and closer, to where I was comfortably seated enjoying the ambience of old Muskoka as it had been, on this land, in the early 1900's presumably. I wondered if I should get up and step back a ways, in case the parade of merry-makers was to take the same trail around the farm house that I did, to get access to the pasture and this knoll of rock and shrub. There was a moment, when I could have sworn that a hand had slipped into mine, as my arm rested on my knee, while I steadied myself in a sitting position, with my right hand bracing against a moss covered outcropping of stone. I looked down immediately, and the sensation did not end because my focus changed, or my attention was directed to my left hand, which I assumed had fallen asleep as they say, balanced on my raised knee. There was a most definite squeeze of my hand, as if it had been seized by someone or some entity, but in a most fascinating, calming way; as if one of these children I had heard, was in ethereal form, the entity acknowledging my existence on the farmstead, and at the same time, its right in the paranormal sense, to let me know it was perfectly alright to be in this place as a "watcher in the woods." After a few seconds, the pressure on my hand decreased, and as if to validate the experience, I watched a strange spiral of warm spring atmosphere, drift down the grass covered slope, and pass gently, slowly into the same foot path that I had trodden down while arriving at this particular portal onto what seemed a very vibrant past, still being re-lived in that curious retrospect that shouldn't be explained; but respectfully enjoyed in the peace and tranquility of such a human memorial to lives "lived", once.

     I do not have a view from Birch Hollow over such a remarkably storied river as Irving studied New York's Hudson, and I haven't a piece of antique furniture the equivalent of that Narnia gateway, the enchanted wardrobe, in possession of the good Mr. Lewis, and I don't have much here that would ever have inspired me to write about three Christmas spirits, who made it their business to save the soul of a covetous old sinner, Scrooge. But I do have the privilege of looking out over a rather fascinating lowland, we call "The Bog," yet in its own prominence and natural character over the four seasons, and its fascinating stature in the most enchanting play of light and shadow, morning to night, sunlight to moonlight, in the midst of a summer storm, to its engagement of a sentimental autumn afternoon, the sunlight engaging the dance of fallen leaves in that colorful cascade that concludes the calmer season, heralding the first snowfall of late October. It is the mist festooned moor, with its wreathing of pine and hardwood, cedars and the leaning birches, the kind made famous by American Poet, Robert Frost.

     Are we to deny our senses, when at times we hear our names being whispered somewhere beside us, or from some source on a trail at our back? Should we dismiss as a play of wind on obstructions, the sound of revelry from somewhere beyond our position, looking out over such peaceful places as overgrown meadows and pasture of once upon a time? Is it possible that an old piece of furniture, with stories untold, and provenance not fully known, could be a portal for the imaginative "you" to escape the burden of reality, to a more inviting fiction, where nothing is entirely as it seems, but then, that would be the allure.