MUSKOKA AT ITS MOST HAUNTED - IN THE MISTY MORNING

It was one of those chilly spring mornings; a day with promise.....the rain has finally ceased for now..... there is great potential for a comfortable, nurturing warmth, with a long stretch of sunshine forecast.....encouraging the buds on the old lilacs to emerge toward that eventual burst of bright color, and alluring sweet fragrance. This morning has a sliding veil of mist that passes over The Bog, enchanting the landscape, stretching out to the tall pines and leaning birches, ghost regiment mustered on the far side of the basin. It is a poetic scene, that any bard would find worthy of a verse or two, an artist with easel, a vibrant, storied paint board, depicting the poignant but gentle ease from morning to evening. It is a wonderful experience, to watch this white mist tumble across the Muskoka moor, and over time, see the powerful beams of light tunnel through the canopy, revealing the heavy dew on the fuzzy fern heads, poking through the past autumn’s leaf cover......the cover that still crunches under foot.

Most folks never see this haunted, tranquil vista, as by the hour they rise from slumber, most of the spring mist will have drifted off into the sill leafless woodlands. They will miss this significant transition of the moment, this hour, the season, and will read an account, such as this, and wonder about all the fuss. It’s just a lowland with a fringe of forest on the upper side. In my vintage, you see, we still held some respect for mystery and magic, enchantments and legend. I don’t believe this to be a legendary place, but this morning had the kind of gyrating shroud, one might expect would, in the morning breeze, writhe like a dragon, through the trees and ferns of Robin Hood’s Sherwood Forest, or bathe the sullen, venerable hardwoods, along the embankment of the Hudson River Valley. This is the kind of morning that reminds voyeurs that reality and the supernatural intertwine; part of the fantastic merge between observation and expectation. It is for the imagination, this morning, to celebrate the nuances of cool spring mornings; sense with an open mind, the sound of those myriad, tiny, silver cataracts of water, running lower and lower through the bogland, toward the lake.......and the golden sun of May, that make this such a wonderfully fictional place.....at the same time, as the written page......taken from reality; I live each day here at Birch Hollow.