Leaving my canoe on the rocks below, I climbed up the cliff to discover a tiny statue of the Virgin Mary perched on a ledge amongst a grove of cedar trees. The elements had taken their toll; the statue had obviously been there for many, many years. As I looked at the shrine, I wondered what its story was.
A year later, while canoeing in the same area, I came across a magnificent yellow tepee sitting on the bank of the Musquash River. Curious about its solitary, elderly male occupant, I couldn’t resist stopping. I’m glad I did. What I learned that day changed my life forever.
The gentleman, a retired ambulance driver from Toronto, had visited the area every summer since the Great Depression. Originally sent to camp nearby as a child, he, like so many others, had fallen in love with the beautiful land and with McRae Lake. Over the years, by patiently watching, listening and researching, he had managed to discover some of the lake’s secrets. He shared with me many wonderful stories that day. The one I am most grateful for, however, was the story of the little Virgin Mary statue resting on the ledge at the entrance to McRae Lake.
The entrance into McRae Lake is an island of rock on the edge of Georgian Bay. The tiny island is constantly exposed to the westerly breezes, which steadily stir the waves against its primeval rocky shore. In the early part of the last century, a trapper and his wife and young daughter lived in a cabin on a large island in the middle of the lake. Early one morning they were startled awake by grunts and woofs and breaking wood. The trapper and his family were in sudden and great danger—a hungry bear was trying to break into their cabin. While trying to chase it away, the trapper was seriously mauled by the bear and left near death.
Frightened and alone, with only an old rowboat for transportation, the woman and her young daughter dragged the barely alive body of her husband out to the edge of the lake and managed to lift and roll him into the boat. Then they desperately began to row their precious cargo towards the Georgian Bay entrance, the only possible source of help. The boat was difficult to row and the cargo heavy. When they arrived at the rocky narrows separating the lake from open Georgian Bay, they were completely exhausted and unable to continue. Not knowing what else to do, they walked between the cliffs of the narrows to the end of the long rock island separating the two bodies of water. Out of ideas and out of hope, the woman sat down and prayed for a miracle. She promised to build a shrine there if help should come and her husband lived.
Soon, to their great joy and amazement, a Georgian Bay taxi, powered by a converted gasoline auto engine— somewhat rare in those days—was passing by the entrance. Seeing them waving, the driver came to their rescue. He was only too happy to take the family to the town of Penatanguishine, where the injured man received the medical help he needed—and his life was saved.
Grateful beyond words, the unnamed woman returned to the lake and, good to her word, built her shrine of thanksgiving high up on a ledge, on the wild shore of Georgian Bay.
As a biologist, I noticed years ago that the shrine was perched in amongst a grove of cedar trees, Eastern white cedars to be precise. But as I looked around at the vast expanse of shoreline and forest, I realized there was not one single Eastern white cedar tree anywhere to be seen— except right at the site of the shrine. Curiously enough, the Latin name for The Eastern white cedar is “arbor vitae”—which means “the tree of life!”
Steve Magee
Brookville, Ontario
Swamped by a Thunderbird
With camping, there’s that first morning splash of dappled sunlight on the tent walls that releases that unforgettable fragrance-to-sigh-for of pine, canvas and earth. And you know with every breath that Canada is the best place to be in the entire world.
Dianne Rinehart
When I was twenty-one, I landed the best summer job in the world working up north in the bush with Lloyd Walton. He was producer, director and cinematographer for Ontario Provincial Parks, and I was his all-around assistant.
That summer, we had to shoot footage for six commercial spots promoting the parks, so along with another Parks’ ranger named Felix, we headed up to Quetico, a large wilderness park just east of Manitoba. At Quetico we met Shan Walsh, the Parks’ naturalist, who had decided to take us to Mackenzie Lake. Everything was arranged, including extra help from his sixteen-year-old daughter, Bridget.
After a full day of paddling and portaging—that is, carrying our boats and supplies on our heads and backs for those parts of the trip we couldn’t navigate on water—we arrived exhausted at our campsite at Trousers Lake. That first night, Shan told us of an old coffin lying on a tiny windswept island in the middle of Mackenzie Lake where an Ojibway chief was laid to rest years ago. Only a skeleton remained in what was now a sacred place. And further up the lake, on a rock not far from the burial site, was a pictograph of a thunderbird.
Lloyd and I were captivated. Pictographs are paintings of animals, people, canoes and mythological beings painted long ago on rock faces rising out of the water. They are sacred places where novice archaeologists sometimes encounter supernatural experiences. A pictograph of a thunderbird is of special significance. The thunderbird embodies the power of nature itself. It is a very potent symbol: neither good nor bad—just powerful.
Between Mackenzie Lake and us were two long gruelling portages, with Cache Lake lying in between. Travelling light, we’d leave most of our camp behind, stay at the old ranger cabin for one night and then head back.
It was a long, muggy and buggy day of portaging and paddling, and towards the end of the second portage, large storm clouds appeared and the sky began to darken. The wind picked up, and thunder and lightening flashed all around us. Lloyd grabbed the camera and ran ahead to shoot me walking with the canoe on my head—and bolts of lightening striking somewhere behind me!
Finally we reached Mackenzie Lake. The rain stopped and we quickly paddled the last two miles to the ranger cabin. Two Americans were already there, but there were ample bunks, so we welcomed them to stay.
That night a thunderstorm raged overhead, and while the rain pounded on the roof, I lay there listening to the show and falling asleep with the “cozies.”
In the morning, the sun was shining, and a light breeze came from the west. Shan wanted to show us the island with the coffin, so we headed out for a prebreakfast paddle. After a couple of miles we wanted to go back for breakfast, but Shan insisted, “It’s only another mile.”
A half-hour later we approached a small, rocky islet crowned with scraggy pines. Carefully disembarking, we walked to the middle where we found a stack of rotten wood. With quiet respect, Shan lifted up what resembled an old wooden door, and there amongst the dried red pine needles lay the skeleton. Suddenly, a strong breeze came out of nowhere, lifting the hair on the back of my neck. We stared in silence, offering our respect.
The two Americans sharing our cabin were right behind us, and when they approached the island, the winds whipped up even more furiously. Shan put down the door, and out of respect for native beliefs and traditions, Lloyd quietly sprinkled some tobacco around the grave.
I was starving, but Shan was leading, so while Felix, Lloyd and I shared his Kevlar canoe, Shan and Bridget paddled ahead in the aluminium canoe. We headed up the lake a couple of miles to the pictograph sites. As we approached the first odd little pictograph on the face of a big rock, the wind picked up again. We had to paddle with all our might just to stay in one place while Lloyd filmed the rock.
Now we approached the thunderbird pictograph. Located on a small rock outcropping on a point, it resembled a rust-coloured stick figure reaching out with its wings. We tied up, disembarked and Lloyd set up the camera. As if on cue, the strong gust of wind blew through again. The camera’s battery cable got finicky, and I had to hold it together with my hands so Lloyd could get the shot. The wind blew even stronger. Waves lapped furiously and banged the aluminum canoe against the rocks, causing rivets to pop out. Eerily, as soon as we stopped the camera, the wind immediately subsided. By now it
was almost noon, and Lloyd had the shot, so we started back to the cabin for a late breakfast.
We strung up our rain ponchos as sails and let the warm breeze push our canoes down Mackenzie Lake. Racing along at a good pace, we passed Coffin Island, but as we rounded the point, we headed directly into the wind. The ranger cabin was still two miles away, so we dropped our makeshift sails. Large waves were rolling behind the point like a set of big, wide rapids. Shan and Bridget started into them, and feeling a little uneasy, Felix, Lloyd and I followed. The water was warm and the canoe would always float, but we had unprotected camera gear and extra weight. Paddling with all our might, we went for it.
As the waves began splashing over the gunwales, and we bounced up and down, Lloyd began bailing. I just kept paddling like crazy. Then it happened. It seemed as if the lake just swallowed the canoe all around me, and suddenly we were in the water. We grabbed for the cameras, shoved them back into the canoe and began kicking our feet. Suddenly I started to smile. It wasn’t funny, but there was nothing else to do. We knew we would all be okay. Shan and Bridget came back, threw us a line and towed us to shore.
We lost all of our still pictures and film footage that day, including the lightening storm, our swim in Cache Lake, and . . . the thunderbird! A sudden awareness came upon me. That’s it! The thunderbird did not want to be filmed. Whatever spirit world existed, it was present today and not happy with what we had done. It was willing to spare us, but not our film.
After a few hours, the wind lost its power, so we piled into our canoes and finally headed back. It was very late, so we spent another night at the cabin. It was some time later when we learned that we should have found a native elder before our visit, and asked permission to film the sacred places. Then, in accordance with Ojibway tradition, we should have left a small offering at the site of the thunderbird. Apparently, if we had done this, all our difficulties could have been avoided.
The return trip is always much easier, and I can’t even recall our journey back. After a wonderful dinner, we explored an archaeological site on a beach just across from our tents. It was an ancient native campsite, and it was there I found a broken arrowhead.
There was no one else on the lake; but that evening everyone heard voices coming from that beach, voices speaking an unknown language. I didn’t need to hear them; I already had proof enough.
The hollow winds arrived again while I lay in my tent that night. I could hear the nighthawks hunting and the lonely loon call in the distance. I thought of the long portages, the sacred site of Coffin Island, the thunderbird and the swamping of our canoe. Mackenzie Lake is one of those places where one comes face-to-face with the power of nature. Neither good nor bad—just powerful. Although I was sad to return to the city the next day, I felt alive and revitalised. I knew I would be able to survive until my next adventure to a magical place, when I would be reminded again that we live in a spiritual world.
Peter Elliott
Peterborough, Ontario
©1997 John Cadiz. From Lost in the Wilds of Canada by John Cadiz. Used by permission, McClelland & Stewart Ltd. The Canadian publishers.
My Heart Soars
The beauty of the trees,
the softness of the air,
the fragrance of the grass,
speaks to me.
The summit of the mountain,
the thunder of the sky,
the rhythm of the sea,
speaks to me.
The faintness of the stars,
the freshness of the morning,
the dewdrop on the flower,
speaks to me.
The strength of fire,
the taste of salmon,
the trail of the sun,
and the life that never goes away,
they speak to me.
And my heart soars.
Chief Dan George, 1899–1981
Chief of the Salish Band
Burrard Inlet, British Columbia
The Birth of Nunavut
To some Inuit, with a deeper knowledge of the language, when the word “nunavut” is spoken, the silent understanding means, “we share in this together, unconditionally,” and there is intense gratitude.
Ann Meekitjuk Hanson
After years of negotiation and struggle, the Northwest Territories were formally divided. Nunavut was created, and a new territory in Canada was born! To the Inuit, the word “nunavut” means simply, “our land.” The more emotional, spiritual, deeper meaning of nunavut is “our homeland.”
In February 1999, the people of Nunavut held their first election. And on April 1, 1999, the governor general of Canada, The Right Honourable Romeo LeBlanc presented the new territory with a brand new flag and a new coat of arms. With the design process being guided at every stage by input from Inuit elders and leaders, the result was a unique set of beautiful symbols designed especially for them.
His Excellency travelled to Iqaluit, the capital of the new territory, and the following is his moving presentation to the people of Nunavut.
Today I have the honour and privilege of presenting a flag and coat of arms to Nunavut. These symbols will recognize not only a new territory, but also an ancient heritage.
Inuit have lived here for thousands of years. You have respected the spirit of the land and the wisdom of your elders. But let me add that, in a sense, all the First Peoples in our country are elders. You were here first, long before the rest of us. You first understood the lessons of our northland. You know that here we need cooperation to survive, compassion to help one another and cheerfulness to endure.
Through courage, sharing and ingenuity, the Inuit have prevailed in the harshest land on earth. And your new coat of arms reflects your history. It shows the caribou and the narwhal to remind us how you gained food, clothing and shelter from the creatures of land and sea. It shows the igloo and the stone lamp to remind us how you turned a frozen land into a home full of music, art and love. Your own spirit was always your main resource. But today your history is entering a new stage.
You have now gained the powers of a territory. You control many resources. And you have the tools to govern everyday life. Every new venture presents challenges. You must create jobs, safeguard communities, educate the young to take over. But you have always faced challenges. You have always prevailed. And you will win again.
The new flag of Nunavut shows an inuksuk and the North Star. Through the centuries, they have guided you across the snow to your homes. You are the closest people on earth to the North Star. And your courage and your values are a light and a lesson to others.
Tonight when Canadians look up to the North Star, we will remember your long history of courage, compassion and endurance. We will look forward with hope to your promising future.
And we will ask that all blessings descend on Nunavut.
Speech given by The Right Honourable Roméo LeBlanc,
former Governor General of Canada,
April 1999
Up from the Farm
There is a profound attachment to the land rooted in the Canadian character. Farming is the single most important factor in the Canadian experience.
Allan Anderson, broadcaster
The tractors started going by early—about 7 A.M. One by one they roared past, a majestic parade of sound and colour. Blue ones, red and white ones, green and yellow ones. All with signs anchored to their fronts, backs or doors. Signs that read: “Don’t criticise farmers with your mouth full,” and “If you ate today, thank a farmer.” From where I stood at the window, I could actually feel the vibrations all the way from the highway. The goose bumps rose on my arms.
When the last tractor passed I returned to my easy chair, but I felt far from easy. Restless, I switched on the radio to see if I could learn more. “. . . The biggest farm demonstration this country’s seen since the dirty thirties, maybe bigger,” the announcer was saying. “They’re on the move, and they’re coming into the city from every direction. Traffic will be ba
cked up on most major routes. Let’s go live to Cindy, who’s in the procession coming in from Winchester.”
I listened, enthralled. How could I settle into my morning routine when I couldn’t erase from my mind the image of hundreds of huge tractors invading Ottawa? This wasn’t another demonstration; this was a piece of living history—something that once witnessed would never be forgotten. Most unusual was the fact that the demonstration involved a segment of the population who rarely even spoke, never mind shouted. Indeed, they were virtually an invisible group, at least from some perspectives. That they left their farms unattended even for one day spoke volumes about the troubles they were facing. Their message was, “If the government doesn’t help us now, God help us all later.”
But would the support they needed be forthcoming? Would the public rally around them? Who was the public? Wasn’t I part of that public? And didn’t I have a personal stake in the matter, having been raised on a farm myself, and having come from a fourth-generation Ontario farming family?
Galvanised, I sprang into action. I searched my attic for a sheet of construction paper and some coloured markers. I laid the paper on the kitchen table and wrote out my message. Then I found some wire and heavy tape and raced out into the biting March wind to secure the sign to the front of my car. Despite the wind trying to lift me, the sign and the car into the air, I was finally ready to roll.
As I sped down the highway, praying that my sign wouldn’t fly off into someone’s field, I noticed other drivers waving at me. I beamed back at them. Halfway to the city I passed an older tractor stranded by the roadside, its front-end loader raised as if in supplication. The sign on its side read, “Headed for Ottawa—Went Broke.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but it did make me more determined than ever to lend my support.