"THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE - PART TWO OF TWELVE
The varied, deep-green hues, so remarkable of the encroaching vegetation, and those dramatic ferns, fluttering birch leaves, and fanning evergreen, with the mirroring on the darkening water, at sunset, reminded him of those compelling stories he had grown up with, as a voracious reader, and eager listener to told and dear stories of the outdoors. As he looked down from where he had arisen, in careful steps, up the incline, it surely reminded him of the way he felt, at hearthside, with crackling cedar fire, reading Izaak Walton's classic "Compleat Angler," and somewhat, of the friendly isolation, bestowed the mind, in David Thoreau's alluring description, of his sanctuary at "Walden Pond." There was something liberating to the mind, the creative enterprise, being isolated by this magnificent geography, in company of others, of similar passion, wishing to escape the toils of the work-a-day world. If he was a poet, he would write a ballad, like Sir Walter Scott's famous border tales. If he had the aptitude to be a painter, he would sketch a picture of the row boats bobbing in the waves, with tiny oil lanterns fastened bow and stern. If he was a musician, what a sweet composition he would write, to represent the wind rushing through the pines, and the lapping and gurgling of the waves against the rock shoreline. He was none of these, he thought, being honest to himself, yet sensing immediately, that there was inspiration here, that could be useful in preparation of sermons, when he returned to his charge, and the work of administering to those feeling the depression of sickness and lack of resources. He would find it logical, and even fulfilling, to preach about a place such as this, that was, at the moment, giving so much pleasure, even by its natural charms alone. He had expected his most joyous situation, would be the landing of a prize fish, the next morning, while on a guided tour of the best angling sites on the lake. This respite had started brilliant well, and he found himself anticipating many good things yet to come; something his position with the church, somewhat prohibited, because of the inherent sadness that comes with failing faith, illness and despair. The Preacher himself, had been suffering exhaustion, and found, over the months leading up to this retreat, he had been unable to lift others, as was his assignment in life afterall. How could would preach uninspired? Doubt was a far greater enemy, than exhaustion, and it was his hope that this re-marriage with nature, unencumbered, would regenerate his faith and passion for the ministry. He was not sure it would!
There were already numerous wavering kerosene and oil lamps, illuminated on the front porch, and positioned in some of the tall misted-up windows, of the wooden lodge building; with its long welcoming and gracious verandah, with lounging chairs set back against the woodwork, to allow free movement along its length. The prominent pine architecture which paralleled the shoreline below, on this darkened lake, lost now to sunlight late in the day. The well trodden pathway up the hillside, taken by the steamship passengers, after arrival at the Lake Rosseau lodge, was steep in places, and a heavy rain earlier in the day, had left some precarious uneven terrain, tripping several of the passengers, but not so bad as to make them fall. The Preacher took the incline slowly, stopping every dozen or so steps, to look back on the hollow of the lake, where he noticed the lights of the steamship, twinkling over the choppy surface of the water. It was a peaceful scene, and he fully appreciated the permeating aroma of woodsmoke, arising from the lodge's hearth, and the grey vapors coming from the steamship stack, smelling, in his mind, like a cranky Scotsman's ancient pipe bowl, that had never once been cleaned of its own antiquity. It was strangely nostalgic and enchanting at the same time, and he was eager to reach the door of the beckoning inn, to see what more intrigue dwelled within.
A clatter of footsteps and banging, on woodwork, sliding luggage, could be heard echoing off the planking from the verandah, and then the bell agitated above the front door,letting the desk clerk and assistants know, the latest group of guests had arrived. When the Preacher finally climbed the three stairs up to the verandah, and navigated through the strewn suitcases left between him and the entranceway, he detected the honest aroma of pine, stove smoke, and an apparent supper in preparation deep in the recess of the lodge kitchen. He paused and said silently to himself, over and over, "this is delightful, very, very delightful; it is a delight to be here now, and I shall very much like this place." He muttered this as he walked slowly into the lowly lit lobby, where he spotted the big counter directly in front, beside the main stairs of the building; but initially, made no attempt to do anything more than observe and allow his senses to connect with what would be his first recreation in many years, attending to his flock, strewn widely over a large district lower in the province. He studied the chandelier, just above his head, with twinkling oil lamps, and greatly admired the conserved fish and deer antlers hung on the wall to his left, where large windows looked out on a terraced lawn lit by a number of post lanterns. There was an old dog, curled up, to the left side of the wooden staircase, with a carpet runner up the middle; and there was a puppy chewing on a bone near a settee by the front window. He thought he saw a trace of a feline resident, but it disappeared quickly, after a race across the floor, possibly after a resident mouse.
The Preacher looked up above the lone clerk's head, and saw the large calendar face, that boldly dated his vacation here; as being August 21st, 1891, right beside the splendid colored portrait of Queen Victoria, flanked by two perfectly angled British flags crossed in her honor. Below this, was a large desk with pigeon holes, and documents protruding, and two large lodge registers of hundreds of pages each. It mush have been a popular site. A wonderful place to spend the summer, looking out upon this picturesque lake, in the northern part of the district of Muskoka.
The interior had a smokey gloom about it, with scattered glass oil lamps, but as a Preacher, it was much like some of the old wooden churches he visited regularly, for evening services. It reminded him of some of the large country cottages he had visited, as a young man, while still in England, and Scotland; full of historical articles and lovely rural art, that gave a friendly, haunting folk aura, as if all the former inmates of these places, had never left the abodes, despite their having passed. He was interrupted in his discussion with the desk clerk, registering for the key to his room, by a tugging on the bottom hem of his trousers, and looked down only to see the bright face of a tiny orange kitten, looking up at him. It had taken sanctuary in the hollow between his pants and the wood floor. He laughed, nudged the kitten away from his leg, and accepted the room key in his right hand, while holding the leather strap of his fishing creel, hung from his shoulder, the wrapped fishing rod held to his palm, by several clenched fingers. "Aye, what is this wee rascal," he enquired of the clerk, who when he looked, couldn't see what the Preacher was referring to as a "rascal.". At this precise time, a waiter dropped a glass bowl on the floor nearby, and the subject of the kitten became suddenly of lesser concern.
The Preacher bent over, and picked up several shards of glass, off the brightly varnished floor, and upon standing again, was handed the large skeleton key to the second floor room, he had just been awarded. He thanked the clerk, and stepped carefully away from the tall counter, watching at the same time, that he didn't step on the kitten's tail accidentally, making his exit toward the staircase.
He climbed slowly up the first three stairs, hung onto the rail firmly, while turning back, to look down, with newfound affection, upon the great hall in this low light of many curiously placed lamps, window ledge to mantle. He saw the great fire that was warming the air space of the high ceiling rooms, and noticed the activity of servers in the dining room, recognizable by the clinking sound of glasses, and tinkling of silverware. He would come down after setting down his luggage in the room, and taking off his soot-covered straw hat, now smudged front and back with his own fingerprints. It was an inviting scene below him, and he felt comfortable as a lodger for the coming week. The Preacher turned back to the task at hand, and began climbing the rest of the dozen stairs to the second floor. He did think to himself, with only the best intentions of trust, that "this is a very spirited place."
No comments:
Post a Comment