A little ditty
This place is crazy and so lonely. I have three candles and the gentle roar of the woodstove as my company. I’m here in October, but I can still hear the sadistic buzz of mosquitoes. Such a difference it is to be up here rather than down in the busy streets, the glow of neon and the bustle of people who haven’t a minute to loose. Time is money, but not here. Here there are no bills, scandals, cliques or schedules and I am glad of it. For that is the point of being here, my own voluntary self-confinement. Perhaps someday I will share this with someone, or I will leave my palace among the pines a secret.
I spend my hours reading, feeding the fire in sockless feet and warming my sleeping bag by the stove, waiting until its hot enough to burst into flames and then jump back to bed, cocooning my shivering body into the bag and burn in the ferocious temperature until I am cold again. Repeat.
A dog is barking at some unknown animal trustpasser, the wind is tossing and blowing the trees about, like weeds in the flow of a river, the current building up to a roar, ravaging the leaves only to recede into a calm, awaiting the next wave. My sleeping bag has become cold again and I need to feed the fire.
I went to town today, and for some reason every time I go, I think it won’t be corny. But with out exception, my perfect town is infected by a virus named progress. SUVs, designer shades, Gucci pigs, it seems like they have their very own little competition of who looks the most out of place. Madness. People come into town because it reminds them of the city. They only feel normal around exhaust fumes, traffic lights, cell phones.
To hell with normal.
Anyway, around 1 o’clock the sun blazed through the clouds, making the hike up the Razor Back quite worth it. The trees, oh, they seem sickened by their own leaves and are attempting to burst into flame, but have only succeeded in turning their leaves to the colour of fire, red, yellow, orange. As I look down on the lake I can imagine Tom Thomson sitting beside me working away from his small paint kit. Quietly humming a tune and frowning at his work as if it was failing to give him just the fight fire red for his oak trees. Then he stops humming and rips his gaze from the landscape to stare into my eyes. He speaks into my soul; “ But the queerest sight I ever did see, was that night on the marge of lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.”
Back in town I find out that they have begun giving tours of the lake. Ha! Just take a damn walk and keep your 10 bucks. The “cruises” are done in a decked out pontoon boat with a driver who tells every tour: “ Gee you folks are lucky, this is the best time of day to view the lake.” And the kakied wilderness babes bob their heads in delight, video cameras and binoculars clanging with anticipation. What the hell? A lake can’t be viewed it must be lived. Tom Thomson lived it to death.
Not 50 feet from where these wilderness babes fork over their cash lies an old steamship dry docked on the warf, being lovingly restored by a carpenter and his apprentice. It lies all ribs and guts biding her time until she can taste the fresh northern water again, feel the gentle tingle of wake on her old keel. This is the town I know, all wood and blood, not a bastardized hunk of plastic and horsepower, but a boat so much alive that it might curse you aloud over a nick in her bows. I guess I just don’t like change.
I don’t know how much longer my candle is going to last.
Later, after sunset, I lit a fire on the point and smoked a stogi. Yes sir, this is the life, not a soul around, 'cept the odd fisherman. No matter how gentlemanly I am with my campfire the damn smoke always follows me. When I migrate away to another spot, it spins around sniffing out my new hiding spot until locating me. And now I smell like a campfire.
This is living. I sometimes wonder why I return to the city, where light comes from the flick of a switch and meat from the fridge. If I can’t light the stove because it rained all last night and my firewood is soaked though, then I freeze though the whole damn night. Well I finally did get my woodstove going and I have the soot marks and burns to prove it. It’s so beautifully simple, eat, sleep, shit, cut wood. I’m beginning to think that this is civilization and the great wilderness lies away south with the busy bastards. Surely I don’t belong with them do I? So tired, I hear an owl inviting me for dinner.
I spend my hours reading, feeding the fire in sockless feet and warming my sleeping bag by the stove, waiting until its hot enough to burst into flames and then jump back to bed, cocooning my shivering body into the bag and burn in the ferocious temperature until I am cold again. Repeat.
A dog is barking at some unknown animal trustpasser, the wind is tossing and blowing the trees about, like weeds in the flow of a river, the current building up to a roar, ravaging the leaves only to recede into a calm, awaiting the next wave. My sleeping bag has become cold again and I need to feed the fire.
I went to town today, and for some reason every time I go, I think it won’t be corny. But with out exception, my perfect town is infected by a virus named progress. SUVs, designer shades, Gucci pigs, it seems like they have their very own little competition of who looks the most out of place. Madness. People come into town because it reminds them of the city. They only feel normal around exhaust fumes, traffic lights, cell phones.
To hell with normal.
Anyway, around 1 o’clock the sun blazed through the clouds, making the hike up the Razor Back quite worth it. The trees, oh, they seem sickened by their own leaves and are attempting to burst into flame, but have only succeeded in turning their leaves to the colour of fire, red, yellow, orange. As I look down on the lake I can imagine Tom Thomson sitting beside me working away from his small paint kit. Quietly humming a tune and frowning at his work as if it was failing to give him just the fight fire red for his oak trees. Then he stops humming and rips his gaze from the landscape to stare into my eyes. He speaks into my soul; “ But the queerest sight I ever did see, was that night on the marge of lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.”
Back in town I find out that they have begun giving tours of the lake. Ha! Just take a damn walk and keep your 10 bucks. The “cruises” are done in a decked out pontoon boat with a driver who tells every tour: “ Gee you folks are lucky, this is the best time of day to view the lake.” And the kakied wilderness babes bob their heads in delight, video cameras and binoculars clanging with anticipation. What the hell? A lake can’t be viewed it must be lived. Tom Thomson lived it to death.
Not 50 feet from where these wilderness babes fork over their cash lies an old steamship dry docked on the warf, being lovingly restored by a carpenter and his apprentice. It lies all ribs and guts biding her time until she can taste the fresh northern water again, feel the gentle tingle of wake on her old keel. This is the town I know, all wood and blood, not a bastardized hunk of plastic and horsepower, but a boat so much alive that it might curse you aloud over a nick in her bows. I guess I just don’t like change.
I don’t know how much longer my candle is going to last.
Later, after sunset, I lit a fire on the point and smoked a stogi. Yes sir, this is the life, not a soul around, 'cept the odd fisherman. No matter how gentlemanly I am with my campfire the damn smoke always follows me. When I migrate away to another spot, it spins around sniffing out my new hiding spot until locating me. And now I smell like a campfire.
This is living. I sometimes wonder why I return to the city, where light comes from the flick of a switch and meat from the fridge. If I can’t light the stove because it rained all last night and my firewood is soaked though, then I freeze though the whole damn night. Well I finally did get my woodstove going and I have the soot marks and burns to prove it. It’s so beautifully simple, eat, sleep, shit, cut wood. I’m beginning to think that this is civilization and the great wilderness lies away south with the busy bastards. Surely I don’t belong with them do I? So tired, I hear an owl inviting me for dinner.