The Preacher's Gone Fishing Chapter 5

 "THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER FIVE OF TWELVE

     He hovered for some extended period of time, in that sanctuary nirvana, a much friendlier limbo, between the last haunting motions of evening slumber, pulling at him, as if he was a near drowning man, on the fringe of survival; being hauled roughly onshore by forces unknown. Awakening slowly, starkly to the chirping of reality, from the newly heightened state of alertness. The encouraging refrain coming this morning, from the beaks of many birds, of different feathers, flitting through the branches of the shoreline evergreens. He opened his eyes to the engulfing brightness of dawn, and his ears were already ringing with the chirping of resident wildlife. The Preacher didn't want to move from this warm place, beneath the heavy quilts, and the thought of the cold floor meeting with his sockless feet, seemed an unfair circumstance, of returning to full vigor; the kind of restoration that would see him, an hour later, hustling from the dining room of the lodge, to the waiting canoe, for that morning's fishing excursion.

     The Preacher opened both eyes to the vast and engulfing brightness of a Muskoka morning, the sunlight beams star-lighting in the dark hues of hardwood leaves, and through the needles of evergreens that lined the shore. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he could see much of the tree canopy, brushing against the deep blue sky, and watch the wavering pine boughs set in motion by the strong morning breeze, such that even amidst a covering of blankets held against his chest, he could feel the draft through the closed window on his exposed arms. He sat there for a short period of time, drinking it all in; the sensory perception that he was in the locale the residents refer to as "God's Country," because of its heaven-like adornments of great beauty yet peaceful solitude within the husky bosom of nature. Even after only a short experience, travelling along the Muskoka waterways, from Gravenhurst, he had understood just how picturesque it all was, unfolding as it did to the voyeaur, leaning over the rail of a chugging old steamship with its plume of smoke reflecting on what had been remarkably still waters.

     The Preacher finally raised himself off the edge of the bedstead, and moved closer to the window, in order to see what was happening below on this beautiful morning of deep, robust August. There were already two loaded canoes moving away from the Lodge dock, and he could see another rowboat being loaded with baskets, roped to the big iron rings of the dock posts. It got him thinking he might have slept in, and missed his pre-arranged fishing trip with a Lodge guide. He was quick about the business of washing his face and hands, and combing his fringe of hair, while estimating what the well dressed angler might adorn himself, on this first day of adventure. He had a warm, lined vest he assumed would be fitting for the angler, and he'd even brought his well used Wellingtons, to keep his feet from getting wet, as he expected all boats to leak just a little bit. When fully dressed, and having admired himself in the mirror above the dresser, he couldn't help but notice his fishing rod had fallen to the floor, and the line pulled from the reel, as if an intruder in the night, had been trying to flee with his gear, but been scared off before it could be taken apart to make for an easier exit from the room. The line had even become wrapped around a rung of the small rocker, where he had thrown his overcoat. He never thought it the work of a wayward spirit, because, at this moment of near departure, he had been sinfully tempted by the scent of hotcakes and eggs, pork and potatoes, permeating the upper hallway, and into his room; and of course, the allure of what was turning out to be a perfect day for the fisherman-him!

     He clomped down the staircase, wearing his boots, and was welcomed by a Lodge attendant at the bottom, and ushered with kind intent, a hand on his elbow, to encourage him to enter the dining room, where a country breakfast was being served at that moment. The aroma was intoxicating to the hungry soon-to-be angler, and as he entered the high-ceiling room with great expectation, he wasn't disappointed when he glanced at the full plates served to other patrons. He again chose to sit at the same table he had, the night before, politely turning down requests to join other guests, who he assumed were just being sociable, and not taking advantage of the fact he was a Preacher, brimming with inspirations for all occasions of cultural intercourse. He chatted with numerous lodgers on the way past, and engaged a few others who dawdled on the way past his own table by the front window, where he had a panoramic view of the lakeshore, and all that was happening there, at that early hour of the day.

     "Did you sleep well sir," asked the gentleman server, who brought to his table, the hot teapot of freshly made brew, and set out the tea cup and saucer in front. "It was fine indeed, thank you very much," he answered. "No hobgoblins to bother you," he added in jest, although the Preacher did pause for a moment, wondering if it was the occasion, that he might inquire about the noises he had heard in his room in the hours after midnight. Then he thought better, when he saw that several women, in another party, at a table to his side, were looking at him, as if awaiting his answer to the question; as to whether hobgoblins existed, in his experience. He quipped, "Aye, just the wee sounds of the tiny critters of the night, scampering about, that's all." The server smiled, nodded, and stepped aside for the waiter, who was bringing a full plate of breakfast foods, to fill an empty stomach, and restore strength for a busy day out on the water. It was a feast fit for a king, but alas, he was just a Preacher. He enjoyed his meal, but not at the expense of missing what was going on, down along the lakeshore, where he could see at least a dozen engaged watercraft, being propelled about the bay by paddle and oar, with assorted occupants; some just observing, while others propelled the crafts here and there, over the rippling water blown rough by the rising wind.

     He dared not hurry through this magnificent meal, but he could be forgiven for being anxious, to join those in the boats below, with his fishing creel and rod prepared for a most incredible angling adventure. To remind him of the excitement yet to come, the Lodge proprietor himself, came to tell him, at his table, that a boat would soon be ready for their departure, to several fishing holes that had proven lately, to be of considerable profit, in terms of fish to be landed; and potentially served as dinner in this same hall, later in the evening. What joy was this? The fulfillment, it was, of many dreams, thatched together over many years, when it was impossible to leave the work of the church, and region, for any recreation beyond the spiritual respite of doing God's work.

     It was already becoming one of the most memorable times in his life. Angling brought back many fond memories, mostly from his childhood, fishing along the rivers and creeks of old Scotland. He was finding many parallels in this beautiful region of Ontario, in what was still a very isolated inhabitation of hardy souls, many of Scottish ancestry themselves.

    It was time to fish. A time to be absorbed by this boundless beauty of water and land; of much pleasure on a universal scale. He had to admit, in the deep sanctuary of his heart, that he was almost feeling too good, about vacating, even temporarily, God's work. The temptation to feel guilty, was short-lived, the moment he stepped out and heard the lapping of waves onto the shoreline rocks.

Chapter 4, "The Preacher's Gone Fishing

 

"THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER FOUR OF TWELVE

     Upon entering his rustic, comfortable room, he noticed it to be heavily scented of fresh cut pine, yet corrupted slightly by the sweet, musty-aroma of damp upholstery, associated with soft armchairs, familiar of such weather-prone places as this; influenced by the trace scent of smoke, and soot, from the ignited oil lamps spread about in the room, glowing warmly that first night. He had only one thought at moment of entry; and that was making his way to the brightly colored bedstead, with its ample wool coverings to keep him warm against the distinct August chill he could feel, just standing close to the shut window. The heat from the bottom floor woodstoves, would drift up, slightly cooler, to the second floor rooms, through vent holes in each of the rooms. The Lodge would be closing for the year, early in September, and left to weather the fall, winter and spring; until another summer season arrived in the vast Muskoka hinterland, so beautiful in the sunlight, enchanted in the late summer moonlight, but a wickedly isolated place in the middle of January.

     He sat on the edge of the bed to pull his tall boots off, and when he stood up, again, remembering to use the water in the wash basin to cleanse his hands, and wash his face, he stopped for a moment of reflection, to take his fishing rod from the leather carrying case; to put it together in preparation for the morning, when he had planned to take advantage of a fishing tour the Lodge had offered him. The preacher carefully fastened the pieces of the rod together, and adjusted the reel, stringing the line through the length of eyelets; and then placing a small blackened cork on the tip of the sharp hook, to prevent it snagging on his clothing, or anything else. The tip of that hook was where he would attach a big earthworm, excavated from the deep, dark forest earth, the next morning, in preparation for his attempt at angling in this revered lakeland of Muskoka.

     He pulled back the covers, after extinguishing the lamps, and he had purposely left the door slightly ajar, allowing the hall light to shine, ever so slightly into the room's entrance-way. It also allowed some of the building's heat to penetrate the room which had been quite chilly when he first entered. The Preacher whispered what was most likely an evening prayer, and with a soft thud, and wash and rub of woolen blankets, had disappeared under a mound of covers in the realm of sweet bedlam. In no time at all, the passerby in the hallway, would have heard a low, but comfortable rumble of snoring, coming from within the darkened room, and it would have been, to some who had met the Preacher, earlier in the trip, the calming, almost pleasant sound, of an unspecified conviction about the true and attainable qualities of peace on earth. Even if, by definition, it was by any other reckoning, the result of a peaceful sleep beneath the Muskoka pines.

     A few short hours after retiring, the Preacher was awoken by a strange rattling sound, coming from the corner of his room, and he initially suspected an intruder, or Lodge worker, had come into his room for some unspecified reason. He raised himself from the deep nest of pillows, with face still partly covered by several layers of blankets, to see if he could discover what had awoken him from his happy slumber. There it was again. The sound of tapping, in and around a rocking chair, tucked into the corner of the room; the back of it, where he had flung his heavier coat, upon arrival in the chamber. There was just enough light coming into the room, from the slightly opened door, to allow him to see the back of the rocking chair, and somewhat, into the top region of the corner, where he half expected to find someone standing. He watched for a while, and even called out, to whoever had entered his sanctuary that moonlit night. The noises stopped once he had raised his voice in concern, as if the interloper had been scared off, from potentially committing some sort of robbery. There were still muffled sounds arising, near the entrance-way to his room, but from his position, he could only guess at its source. If it was a mouse, it would have to be a large one, and on a mission well beyond being playful.

     He then assessed, that it might have been the travels of a creature, like a chipmunk, in search of sustenance, thinking his room might be a good hunting ground in the wee hours of the night. The Preacher soon fell soundly back to sleep, as all returned to that gentle peace he had so dearly embraced when he first hit that soft mattress, on the wooden bed that unfortunately was not as long as he was tall. At some time later, in the same area as he had heard the first tapping and scuffling, on the wood floor, the Preacher was again woken-up, in roughly the same manner, except this time, he saw the very distinct rocking back and forth of the chair, where the black lump on the back, was his hastily draped overcoat. He stared intently at the scene, in the thin ribbon of lamp light coming through the door, and there was no illusion here at all. The rocker was moving gently back and forth, as if someone was occupying it, yet of the invisible variety of personage. The tapping continued, and there was a similar, yet different sound of scuffling near by, and as sustained as it was for those five minutes or so, in the Preacher's room, it suddenly stopped when footsteps could be heard coming up the hallway. He assumed it was the footfall of another guest, moving about the building, or the innkeep checking on the oil lamp flames.

     As he was not afraid of ghosts, partly because of his chosen profession, such that he could not separate from it, even in this civilian retreat, where death and its tending, was part of his regular assignment...., he whispered a soft apology to what may have been the spirit of a former lodger, who had once enjoyed the comforts of that very chair; and then fell back into the heaven of his multiple pillows, and pulled the blankets high to the point of his pointed chin. Soon, the only sound in that room, was the deep snoring, more like growling, from deep within his throat, expressed loudly from his nose and mouth, in a sort of human explosion of gas and vapors. He would sleep soundly until he was awoken by the smell of frying pork and potatoes, and the sounds of water birds, rejoicing, watching the leap of fish, rippling here and there, the solitude of the morning bay. A feast to be had, for yet another day, for questing, puffed-up, obviously well-fed gulls, flying low over the waters of this dazzling body of Lake Rosseau, in the hinterland of the Muskoka district.

     He was eager to meet the morning with his full body, and eager mind, to embrace the liberation for all it was worth. He wanted to be like those feeding gulls, getting fat from the bounty of the lake. He pondered how long it would take, to catch enough fish to fill his large wicker creel. It was time to dress, dine, and head down to the dock, in order to embark on his fishing trip to points unknown. It was the whole point of the trip afterall. As he found fishing of great relaxation, the church had agreed with his request for a vacation, in order to refurbish his work weary self. It was all coming to fruition here and now. What heaven on earth was this?

The Preacher's Gone Fishing. Part 3

 "THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER THREE OF TWELVE

     There was a busy, tinkling echo of voices, bouncing around the high, open ceiling, that displayed the huge, squared, hand-hewn timbers, of the upper architecture, of the large, hill-top lodge building. You could see small wafts of smoke rising and swirling at the peak, where the fireplace had sent some of its exhaust, with the expiring kerosene from several lamps, suspended overhead. It was a work of folk art. And with the placqued moose-head and antlers, the preserved sampling of locally caught fish, artistically mounted on varnished backboards, high above the counter, and a black bear's head, reverently posed, on a large medal-style board, hung just above the back staircase, there was definitely the feeling, and promotion, of sport and outdoor adventure ingrained here. At the same time, if it could be said, there was a rustic elegance as well, suited to the lodger, who offers no great ambition, to either hunt or fish; but rather, a passion to just sit out on the verandah, and enjoy the passing of time in a lakeland paradise. They were the urban refugees of Victorian cities, bursting with industry, and its intrusive contamination of air, water and tranquility.  

     The oldtimer, who was the unofficial bell-hop, helped the Preacher haul his small amount of luggage, up the wooden staircase of the rustic, woodsmoke scented lodge; a several story building with a long front verandah in the Victorian style, from a hillside overlooking sparkling Lake Rosseau, in the hinterland Muskoka district. The door of the Preacher's room, had a problem closing fully, for some reason of door swelling, possibly an inconvenience of seasonal dampness; or possibly inspired by a recent shift of timbers, the settling of the foundation, as the innkeep was sure was happening to his building. But the explanations changed depended on who he was talking to, at that particular time. But the new lodger wasn't at all concerned about privacy concerns. The gentleman assured him that the matter of the door would be addressed soon, by the attending carpenter, who might whittle a portion of the thick door away, along the outside edge, to allow it to fit more securely. Once again, the Preacher just nodded, and tipped his hat, that he had put back on his head, once he had begun walking up from the lobby desk; where not having a hat atop was just polite introduction.

     The room had several illuminated coal oil lamps, having been prepared by a dutiful room attendant, one on the table he would use for in-room dining, and the other, set on a lace doiley, on the nightstand, positioned conveniently beside the high headboard of the bed. The room smelled of old woodsmoke, like the rest of the lodge building, and fired coal oil, but it looked, on its own, as if it would be a comfortable respite, away from the rigors of countryside travel; his usual fare on days like this, to tend the needs of those who needed his spiritual guidance. The Preacher dropped his fishing creel, and rod in its leather pouch, and walked over to the window, looking down over the front yard of the lodge, and the sparkling early evening waters, of the moonlit Lake Rosseau. He thought to himself that it was a sort of heaven on earth, to have this opportunity, to enjoy such luxury of unfettered recreation. The first item pulled from his tattered, worn leather bag, upon settling into his new room, was the Bible he kept with him on all his travels. He set it down on the central table with the doiley and oil lamp. It looked good positioned there, in this rustic environment; much like what a travelling preacher would have had as roadhouse accommodation fifty years earlier, in the 1850's, travelling from hamlet to hamlet in the southern clime, at dusty rural crossroads. He liked that this lodge didn't have all the sophistication of the most luxurious of resorts, of the era, where he could have stayed had he not desired such picturesque isolation.

     He was advised, with a knock on the door, by a young lady wearing a style of uniform, that a hot meal had been saved for him in the dining room, if at his convenience, he would like to attend the first floor once again. He could smell what he assumed was roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, the moment he walked into the foyer of the rustic log and plaster building. He nodded his agreement with the invitation, and took off his long coat, to reveal a more modest jacket below, that would suit him fine, for an after hours dinner in the dimly lit hall. The actual supper hour had occurred an hour earlier, but the Lodge cook had held back food for the late arrivals aboard the steamship, which had been delayed at another resort further down the lakeshore.

    The Preacher creaked his way down the thick wooden stairs, and there was no one in the building that didn't hear the footfall, and smile at the new guest, making his way to the dining room. He smiled back, and nodded as he made his formal entry to the hall, after adjusting his jacket, and sleeves, to tidy up his appearance, regardless that it was almost empty at this time of night. He chose to sit by a front window overlooking the lake. He admired the way the illumination of the oil lamp, set on the table, dazzled like a halo in the glass as reflection. He could see very little out the window, except the pathway down to the lakeshore, which was lined with small wind-protected kerosene lanterns, like the ones on the steamship, and that he had noticed on the train cars coming north. It was all very interesting, in his casual assessment, and truth be known at that moment, he would have gladly assembled his fishing rod instead of dinner, and headed down to the lake for some preamble angling, in the peace and quiet of mid-evening. He settled instead, to just sit back in the Windsor style pine chair, and enjoy the delicious meal offered him, and several others, by the dutiful cook, obviously in the last moments of his work day.

     The Preacher was enormously content, at this moment in his personal biography, but was feeling a little guilty, as many of his colleagues could also have used this lakeside recreation, to restore their spiritual reserve. He was clearly more content than he could remember of his recent past, which had seen him relocated numerous times, across the country, to infill wherever there was a shortage of spiritual leadership. He felt the lakeside respite was most perfect at this time. He had felt weaker and less resilient than ever before in his life. It took him weeks to recover from a common cold. Injuries, such as sprains and usual aches and pains, were taking months to subside and heal. He simply couldn't have refused the offer of this retreat, when it was encouraged of him, by church administration; he supposed, as a small token of appreciation for his many years of service, and resulting hardship, from bouts of recent illness. His friends assessed they were caused more from self deprivation, than simply the demands of his wide-spread congregation. He wasn't going to think about it all now, because this was indeed, a wonderful opportunity for self-discovery, in what he understood, from the locals, was already considered to be God's Country. He felt he was in the right place then, and enjoyed his meal in a gentle solitude, watching as lodge workers scurried up and down the illuminated outdoor path, loading up a couple of work boats tied to the dock. He pondered how easy it would be to fall asleep in this atmosphere, and several times, he felt his heavy eyelids pulling shut, even before his meal had been fully consumed. It was time to retire to bedlam. He folded his linen napkin, set it back up on the table, and pushed out his chair slowly, such as to make as little fuss and noise as possible, and then rose slowly to commence the cautious amble out the door, of the now darkened room, to the stairs, up to his little room; tucked near a corner on the second floor. On his way out the door, he paid his thanks to all the staff, still faithful to their stations, including the cook, poking his head out the door to bid farewell.

     This was the beginning of something he believed would be a highlight in his life. He wanted to enjoy it slowly, like a thick, sweet candy, one wants to preserve as long as possible, for the fullest enjoyment. This was his humbug, sitting on his tongue, reminding him how sweet it really was, to be liberated, even temporarily, from the rigors of the ministry. This was to be savoured, not devoured.

The Preachers Gone Fishing Part 2

 

"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."

The Preacher's Gone Fishing Part 1

 

Vintage, circa. 1968, Winter Seasons In Windermere

"THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING" - THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE - CHAPTER ONE OF TWELVE

     This particular "great expectation," wasn't inspired by a book or an author. In fact, there were very few stories he knew of, from antiquity, except from the Bible itself, that he could draw on, philosophically, to navigate the intricate map of possibilities, this adventure into the wilds might well hold, for the liberated heart. Spiritually he knew the way. If he could inch over the exhaustion he was feeling, having, for long and long, captained the outreach work of the church, the Preacher would have a chance of enjoying every minute of this unfolding, moment by moment adventure, pushing through the reflective images of this amazing peace on earth.

     The soot-belching, vibrating steam engine, lowly thundering in echo, down, and through the forest-lined narrows, plied the still and dark waters of the lake, with considerable authority, as if it was gliding along a submerged railway track. It's steam whistle shattered the calm of the lakeland, and the plume of smoke and steam vapor, clouded and spiraled down over the wake, giving it the appearance of being on fire, from the setting sun; or that the ship was being pursued by some great mythical beast, the sparks clear evidence of the dragon's cranky disposition, at being startled from slumber by the churning, slow moving vessel.

     The Preacher, on his first recreation in over a decade, hung over the railing on the ship's stern, seemingly more enthralled by where he had come from, than where he was headed up the lake. The only slightly occupied, small size steamship, had only one stop left for the day, and that was to land at the lodge's long wooden dock; pulling-up parallel, and then being roped to the iron fittings anchored to the wood frame. Moored over an ample amount measure of water, to accommodate the depth of hull, sitting below the surface. When the steamer would come to dock, at the Lake Rosseau shore, to dispatch its passengers, and their trunks and suitcases, and parcels for the lodge, it would do so, as if sliding silk across silk, with barely a whisper of collision, as the wood bumpers of the vessel, connected, and slid smoothly against the wood timbers of the dock. So gentle was the merger, of boat and dock, that most passengers, who had been sitting inside, conversing, hadn't known of their arrival until it was announced to them, by a roaming ship's mate, letting everyone know it was finally time to disembark. The Preacher, as well, had only noticed the visible slowing down of the passage, and the increasing size of the wake, as the boat sank deeper into the water with a slower speed.

     Still occupying what he thought, was a privileged position at the stern of the steamer, the Preacher turned around, and leaned back onto the railing, to look down upon the activities taking place on the dock, as the boat was quickly and efficiently lashed to the iron relics, fastened themselves, to the huge square timbers. He took his straw hat off, to avoid it being torn from his head, by a gusty August wind, rising from the northwest. He couldn't help then, noticing the soot from the stack, that had come to land upon his head, now a large smudge on the top and rim of the wide brimmed hat. He would have to get assistance from someone at the lodge, who understood such domestic science, to help rid the hat of the smudges, some that imprinted perfectly his fingers.

     The preacher wasn't at all bothered by the state of his now blackened straw hat, that could be cleaned later. He began to head down the stairs to the gangway, that would connect passengers to the lodge dock, where he would have to claim his small amount of luggage, his near-legendary fishing rod and the wicker basket, or better known, creel, that had been passed down to him by his father, that had before this, belonged to his grandfather, a well known Scottish angler, when not tending his flock; as he had also been a preacher. The basket that would trustfully, soon hold the bounty of the lakes, had its visible wear, holes, and broken wicker, yet it possessed the spirit of those memorable angling days back in the old country, so aye, it had its inherent charms. All that were now pleasantly, and trustfully attached, to this most contemporary of occasions, at this grand Muskoka lodge; the architecture just visible at this point of departure, the roof line witnessed only a few measurable feet, above the evergreens clustered along the shore, and the still rising plume of smoke coming from the ship's stack.

     The man, his gear in hand, fishing rod neatly packed away in a short canvas sleeve, had placed his soot-covered hat, back onto his balding head, a little askew from the trip up the lake. He stopped a few feet off the boat, to drink-in the ambience of this beautiful setting, on a cool, late summer night, just as the sun began slipping below the horizon rocks, and stately pines, inherent of this vast northern lakeland. He inhaled deeply the invigorating country air, and quite enjoyed the wafting scent of woodsmoke coming from the lodge chimney, only partially visible through the evergreen needles, wavering in the millions, seemingly as a kindly gesture, all the way up the hillside path toward the main building. He would wish to sit by the hearth of that great fire, in this rustic centre hall of the lodge, as the early evening chill, brought by the gusts of wind across the water, had caused the Preacher to shiver, and pull his jacket tightly around him.

     On his way up the path, falling behind the other passengers, now guests of this Muskoka lodge, he stopped momentarily, to look back upon the last of the sunglow, striking up at the sky, as if from the crushing blow of a blacksmith's hammer, sparking as natural fireworks, into the darkened universe. It was a beautiful scene, that might have struck the outdoorsman, Thoreau, to pen something remarkable, about nature and the soul. There was a subtle, invasive calm, yet excitement in the man, who had travelled days to get to this remarkable little place in the north. Now though, the rumbling in his stomach, and ache of his feet, were more important to tend to, as he turned and began, once again, his climb upwards, giving every appearance that he was heading skywards into the stars.

     He must attend to his registration at the front desk, and as he smelled supper in preparation, presumably deep in the lodge's kitchen, it was time to move his feet to a more progressive and uphill momentum.

"The Preachers Gone Fishing" - Preamble To A Haunted Muskoka Lodge

 

Vintage Pictures, circa 1970, Watt Township

"THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER, AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, "THE PREAMBLE"

     There it is again! Unsettling the peace and quiet of a woodland hike. The clear rustling, of last autumn's leaves, as if purposely kicked-up by a determined, brisk walk, brushing heavily through the dry leaves just behind you, on the well trodden pathway. When you look back, there is nothing visible that could be responsible, for making such an intrusive, unsettling sound. No squirrel, chipmunk, or prevailing wind gust, that could create the cadence of footsteps, as if someone else was walking immediately behind, trying to catch-up. But who could it be? Your imagination is playing tricks on you. Right?  Or, as reality bordering strange fiction, was it the ghost of someone who had walked these same woods, at this same time of day, many times during their years of living nearby? After departing this mortal coil, is it possible the walks of life, have continued as a quality of the afterlife?

     The rapping on the back door? Now that was a mystery. Three times, the knocking got you out of your chair, to answer the door, and each time, there was nothing on the verandah except the Easter decorations, and the spring season wreath suspended on the door. Maybe the wind was rattling the adornment, mounted high on the entrance, causing it to manifest a knocking sound. But there was no detectable wind. And certainly no one standing at the door.

     Then there was the curiously out-of-place child, wearing a long white dress, visibly brushing against the still muddy ground, witnessed on a countryside stroll, you took that early spring evening. She could be seen running alongside the half fallen cemetery fence, of the old neighborhood. It seemed, at first glance, the young girl was looking for an opening in the rickety barrier, to get into the graveyard. How and why did the little girl simply vanish, as you approached to offer some assistance, to what appeared a fretful circumstance. You ponder that it must have been a unique play of light and shadow, blending at that time of night; or simply a figment of an over-active imagination.

     Think back, for a moment. Have you ever had a strange experience, you initially thought, shortly there-after, reminded you of something your mother, grandmother, great uncle, or cousin seven times removed, might have spun for you, in story-form, from adult to child, that had something to do with superstition, ghosts, or, if they were from the old country, hobgoblins?

     Might you have, some time in your life, awoken in the middle of a stormy night, to see someone standing in your doorway, or even sitting on the end of your bed, which vanished in the blink of a sleepy eye? And if you asked a parent or grandparent, in the morning, which one of them had paid you a wee hours visit, the answer was most likely, as tradition usually dictates, that none of them had been wandering about the abode, at that time of the early morning, to account for the visitation. Might the twinkle of an oldtimer's eye, you detect, cause you to wonder then, if this individual knew more than they were letting on, about what may have occurred, even to them, in their own bedrooms, of the same dwelling place? Or were they just playing a trick on you?

     Have you heard steps coming up, or down the main staircase of your residence, when no one else was at home; or detected the sound of a footfall in the room directly above, while knowing there was no one else but you at home? Ever wonder why you feel some entity is watching you, when entering the basement of a residence or business, and then feel, when climbing back up, the urgent sensation to race up the stairs, as something is coming quickly from behind; that might suddenly and painfully grab you ankle, and pull you back down to suffer untold horrors? Have you heard someone call your name when no one has been in the vicinity, or felt what seemed like a firm hand grip on your shoulder, or pat you on the back, when all alone; or walking along a path where your family hiked routinely over several generations? The friendly spirits of kinfolk? Who really knows?

     Most of us, being honest about such events, and our perception of them, have to admit, however pensive we are about making such a confessional public, feeling unsettled by the incursion, as subtle as it may have been, at the very moment of connection; experiencing curious sensory perception, with what couldn't be easily explained, or pinpointed, to the handywork of an indvidual, possibly playing a practical joke on the unsuspecting "you". It isn't odd in any way, to have had such an experience, that presented no logical reason for occurring; and yet, it would be irrational if not entirely silly, to decide immediately, that it must have been the outreach of the paranormal. There is much in life that can not be explained, and many incidents that we become involved, by the happenstance of living day to day, that defy simple earthly explanation. Yet we can not say that it was the intrusion of those who have crossed over, trying to get a message to the living. While I might believe many of my parallel situations, of strange liaisons with entities unknown, are indeed messages from beyond, it is something that pacifies my interests; but is not something I advocate for, as a hobby medium, of which I am no such thing. I am always interested in stories with paranormal attachments, whether it involves the sighting of a ghost, or strange light in the window of a vacant house; or a spiritual quality that hums in the low light of early spring nights, with no one visible. It is something of a curiosity, that will always, as a matter of irony, haunt us; being this possibility of wayward spirits that can communicate with the living.

     We are, in our own way, responsive to suggestion. We may denounce the belief in ghosts, when confronted by a staunch believer, yet admit in confidence to our family, having seen the ghosts of grandparents sitting in the yard, where they were most familiar on long summer nights. It is no shame to admit one has doubts. This is the foundation of the series of stories in this twelve chapter series, written specially for "Currie's Antiques," and this facebook page, administered by my business partner, and bride of many years, Suzanne. All our family members, have, at one time or another, come face to face with what experts would call the paranormal. We have not be frightened by them, as much as amazed; and exceedingly thoughtful about what the meeting might have meant to all parties. The series of stories, about a Preacher / Angler, of the Victorian era, staying at a Muskoka lodge of that period, is more about the power of suggestion, and what beliefs were passed down through the generations, to our main character, than about ghosts and hobgoblins in their traditional paranormal attire. These are just stories, in honor of our beautiful district of Ontario, and the respites that have flourished in what many have called "God's Country." We want to prove our loyalty to Muskoka, and show that it is, for us, not only a great home region, but the territory that has nurtured our family, from the earliest years of homesteading, when the Shea settlers erected their first humble shelters, dating as far back as 1862, in Watt Township, now in the present Township of Muskoka Lakes. It is a truly Muskoka story, and we want you to be part of it. 

     Set your imagination free, and allow us, as historians and story spinners, to take you back in time, to a wonderfully rustic pioneer lodge on Lake Rosseau, to meet the Preacher / Angler. It is not a story to shock you, but rather a tale from antiquity, to hopefully to entertain.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 29, The Conclusion

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 29 A STORY ABOUT OUR RESIDENT GHOSTS

BY TED CURRIE

     I am most drawn as a writer and, I suppose, as a ghost sleuth, to the writings of Washington Irving. This will be obvious to readers of this story. It was his assertion, in his 1822 book, “Bracebridge Hall,” that while science had revealed much about life and times of the planet, and its inhabitants, whether flora and fauna or its human occupation, and mankind is well served by such fruitful investigations. In the field of botany however, Irving pointed out that advocates of the truths of what grows on the planet most often come then to dismiss what writers, poets, artists, and musicians have observed of resident enchantments of these same plants, meadows, pastures and mountain-sides. Not to suggest that truth be avoided to spare the delicious fantasies of fairies and assorted bandy legged wee beasties that frolic in the woodlands. Just that in some cases, the botanist, or scientist is overwhelmed by truth to the point nothing of the fantastic can exist without their express approval and validation. Yet, I have probably read several thousand well documented ghost sightings dating back several hundred years, and some of these encounters have been noted by highly educated and well appointed scholars, politicians, business leaders and historians, who can’t account for what they saw and felt as far as the haunting they were most familiar. Might Irving have been insinuating that the believers in superstitions, and ghosts in particular, should commune with scientists more thoroughly, to identify the bridge between the real and the surreal; the normal and the paranormal. The natural and the supernatural. I think thus, Mr. Irving would be pleased that this has been happening for some time, and it may one day be the case, science will be able to validate those of us who have, with keen senses, come in contact with those who have crossed over, meaning simply, the proof of life after death.

     I sense from events over the past month, that the ghosts of wee Francis and Cynthia Smith have decided I make a pretty good companion, to those who have crossed over. And they seem, at least by a succession of curious mischief that has happened here at Birch Hollow, in Gravenhurst, to have happily decided to haunt the Bosevelt’s “Oaken Snuggery” Bed and Breakfast, through the week, and our home at on the weekends. It has been a full month since Suzanne and I wrapped-up our ghost sleuthing at the Rose Hill property belonging to the Bosevelts. According to Mrs. Bosevelt, who I phone at least once a week, the visitations of the spirited lasses have greatly diminished, meaning her antique dolls have not been knocked over, and no books have been pulled off the library shelves or tossed heater skelter on the floor, as once happened when the ghostly activity was at a peak. Guests haven’t reported seeing anything unusual and that includes the occasional appearance of the old woman seen knitting in an unoccupied room upstairs, while pushing back and forth on an antique Boston rocker. It’s not to say that our tidying up of some property history satisfied the girls, making them feel their guilt had finally been resolved and their lives, I suppose, validated after all these years of trying, in the spirit-realm to attract attention to their misdeeds in life, that may have caused considerable carnage to the neighborhood, and potentially the loss of one of their friends, when God allegedly took the boy for his association with Cynthia and Francis, the sisters who had stolen two crucifixes during a prayer meeting in the late 1860’s. That’s a long time to feel the grip of guilt. As for the accidental death of Thomas Tucker, who drowned after falling into the Bosevelt’s pond, as it was back in 1873, it may be considered an act of God, but not a vengeful God, as the girls suspected, and accepted as a necessary burden of guilt, like a millstone, fettering them until death, and as it turned out, beyond the grave. We couldn’t prove, of course, that the girls hadn’t goaded the young Mr. Tucker onto the ice, as might be expected of child’s play and challenges, but with everything we had come to know, via research, and interpret through a myriad of appearances and clues provided by the Smith girls at their most aggressive, there is little to suggest the unfortunate death of the lad was anything more than spring-time misadventure; and who has not been tempted to walk on thin ice once or twice in a lifetime. Tom Tucker’s failure to recognize thin ice before he venture forth, was his death-wish, having nothing to do with Cynthia and Francis, who probably made every effort to assist their friend, and secure help from the owners of the property residing where the Snuggery is situated today.

     On the 30th of April, the Bosevelts, with Suzanne and I, went down to the pond, dazzling in the afternoon sunlight, and in a quiet ceremony, with very few words spoken, took the fused crosses, and as a latent memorial to Thomas Tucker, Mrs. Bosevelt, who had the most experiences with the girls, of anyone else at the farmhouse, threw them out toward the middle of the pond, where the accident most likely had occurred that day in 1873, one hundred and forty-five years earlier. It was also said by Mrs. Bosevelt, that it is recognized today, by all who live and work at this Rose Hill property, that Francis and Cynthia Smith were not responsible for young Tucker’s death, and that they, by taking the two crosses from a church service, were additionally not responsible, in God’s benevolence, for the accidental fires that claimed to pioneer cabins, being used at the time to house Sunday prayer meetings. As well, any misfortunes that may have happened to the Smith family, including the young deaths of the Mr. And Mrs. Alfred Smith, was not the result of the actions of their daughters, bringing about any kind of revenge upon their well being. Just behind us, Mr. Bosevelt, a hobby woodworker, had set in place a small park bench for guests of the Bed and Breakfast to lounge while out on a gad-about of the property, dedicated to the memory of Thomas Tucker who had drowned in the pond accidentally on April 30th, 1873. A small brass plaque was screwed onto the backboard engraved with this information. Just behind the bench, Mrs. Bosevelt had just recently planted a newly acquired lilac bush in recognition of two wee lasses who had known this property intimately so, back in the 1860’s and 70’s, when they ran wild through these fields and uplands, disappearing into the evergreen forest, taking turns hiding from each other, and skipping flat stones found along the shoreline of this beautifully reflective pond this hour, as they must have witnessed it a thousand times as children.

     The Bosevelts accepted my month’s labour in the form of a manuscript, that was composed specifically for The Oaken Snuggery, to be offered to guests of the Bed and Breakfast, to prepare them for the potential of a ghost encounter, assessing that it would be better to prepare lodgers, instead of having them frightened by a sighting or something that could only be the handiwork of the sisters at their recreation. The story is more a tale of intimate enchantment, than a tale of a haunting that might parallel those perpetuated by castle ghosts and old manor house hobgoblins. The girls are not malevolent in any way, and should they make themselves known, from time to time, at The Snuggery, it is infinitely better that guests treat them with the same cheerful respect, as we all have, during the month of our intensive study of the old farmhouse and its acres of Muskoka countryside; finding it emotionally peaceful with Walden Pond solitude, yet brimming with natural curiosities and richness, that makes the stay here all the more enthralling.

     It is unfortunate that an accidental death occurred on this same magnificent corner of heaven on earth, but strange enough, the ghost of Thomas Tucker has not remained earthbound, having accepted his fate, one might suppose, that it was his fault that day, when fate reminded him his luck had run out. The wandering spirits of Francis and Cynthia were just making sure that their childhood friend Thomas, would have his eternal place in this natural paradise, as he felt of it, with great zest for adventure, during his brief but fulfilling life. But one day, it is possible, in the intense light of a spring dusk, when the sun glow sets fire to the surface of the pond, that the three children will again make an appearance in this hollow of pasture, in the ghost-hamlet known as Rose Hill, Ontario. Then, as the sun gradually settles below the line of tall pines on the hillside, their tiny images will fade into antiquity once more, to enhance the folklore of an enchanted, storied region.

     Is it the case then that “The Oaken Snuggery” has been exorcised of its spiritual entities. I can only hope not. The Bosevelts concur. The true peace and goodwill of the place, respects their residency in the eternal sense of inhabitation. They have made it a “storied place,” and in their heavenly presence, goodwill shall prevail upon one and all, who call The Oaken Snuggery their home away from home.

     I bid you farewell, and thank you so much for visiting.

     Suzanne tells our friends that we talk to dead people. It’s true, and we get answers, but one thing is for sure. We don’t get invited to parties. There is still a stigma attached to the belief in the “fantastic” and the kind of entities that defy rational explanation, yet we find it entirely rational to communicate with ghosts, like the two wee lasses we met at The Oaken Snuggery, in beautiful Rose Hill, Ontario. They asked nothing of us, except to be recognized for the state they currently reside. I think the Bosevelts will find the atmosphere somewhat more calming and inspiring with these now subdued spirits. I feel comfortable now, closing this chapter, that was if nothing else, heartwarming and very non-ghostly.