CHRISTMAS AT THE MCGIBBON HOUSE
The former Manitoba Street home of Dr. Peter McGibbon, in Bracebridge, was my residence from the autumn of 1977 until the late spring of 1983. For the first years of my family’s stay in the dwelling, I was privileged to have possession of the attic which overlooked the tree-lined triangle of Memorial Park. It was a magnificent portal to watch out over my hometown.
First of all, as is noted in other entries on this site, the McGibbon house was haunted by many quantities and qualities of the paranormal. And while it’s true I was originally a tad unsettled about the entities encountered, there were so many unexplained activities that it became more the patina and provenance of the house, more so than being just a "haunted house." Working in the attic gave me truly interesting point of observation about the haunts I was writing atop.
It was only days after moving in that I set up my typewriter, on an old desk by the front window. The attic had enough windows that it stayed wonderfully illuminated with natural light from early morning until dusk. It was cheerful enough but it was rather cavernous because of its size and ceiling height, and the fact there were modest furnishings. It was a well insulated room when the door to the back stairs was shut, and of all the places I’ve had writing studios situated, over the decades, none had the ambience of that McGibbon house attic.
The most memorable period writing from that third floor portal, was during the winter of 1977-78. I had just finished my studies in Canadian history, at York University, with a minor in English, and I was eager to begin some serious writing. I dabbled in poetry and short stories at that point, and I wrote a weekly column in a new paper known as the Bracebridge Examiner, on the subject of antiques and collectibles. It was a magic place because only slumber put me out of action. I was able to sit at that typewriter and go mad with composition. It was probably my most prolific period as a writer, and it was the silence and the view that really made this place a catalyst for new ideas. I wanted to write. I’d sit down with a bottle of wine, and I’d work until well after midnight, for at least five nights each week over that winter period. It was a strange feeling of elevation being on top of so much history. Dr. Peter McGibbon and his wife Mabel were two very accomplished individuals and this house had been used as both a medical office and a residence.
It was an early 1900's three story brick house so it was always making some unexplained settling, expansion or reduction noises; whether it was the heating ducts clanging with wisdom from the furnace, or creaking of floor boards from downstairs that I could hear clearly on occasion, even while in the middle of typing at the attic window. What made it strange moreso, was that there were periods of almost entombment when even the traffic below didn’t seem to register within. It could be noiseless for hours and then, as if someone had thrown open a window or door, the sounds were more than abundant. It could change in seconds and I can remember stopping work because it had gone from grave-like silence, to the sounds of a three ring circus. There were many times during these long writing jags that I would be startled by someone talking nearby. In my years in the McGibbon house this was common activity, as was rapping at the doors and jiggling of door knobs. I’d look around expecting that my girlfriend Gail had arrived, and I’d simply missed the opening creak of the door at the stairs. This happened hundreds of times and never once could I attribute the voice to a person in my presence. These were just voices in the air of the house. Voices from the past. Sometimes I would swear someone was calling my name. I can’t remember how many times I ran downstairs, thinking my mother Merle was in some sort of trouble, only to find out she was nodding off on the chesterfield, or making dinner.
It was also not uncommon whatsoever, to feel someone or something looking over my shoulder, as if trying to read what I was typing, feeling as close as one can get without the full sensation of intimacy. I had many taps on the shoulder and the awareness of a footfall behind me, or closer to the back stairs where there was a dim light. There were times when I thought I’d just then witnessed a silhouette passing through the light but whenever I got up for a closer look, all was as empty and unremarkable as before. There were other times when I would get a cold shudder, which my mother used to suggest was "caused by someone walking over your grave from another life." It was the only serious creepy feeling I had in that attic, when all of a sudden I’d find myself with a tingling shiver, as if I should be scared though I was never sure what to be scared about. It was a very friendly house besides being very paranormally occupied.
I can recall being up in the attic one Christmas Eve, initially working at my typewriter, and when that enterprise ceased, wrapping presents for my family on the big editorial table to my right. I can clearly recall a less than harmonious feeling during the wrapping session, as if being told by a resident spirit, that this particular attic wasn’t for such frivolous activities. I did feel a little like Dickens’ Scrooge, in "A Christmas Carol," and half expected at any time, for the past, present and future to play out as a film strip, down across my snowy mainstreet panorama. It was the perfect window for Jacob Marley to violently throw open to inclement weather, and command my attention to the ceaseless toils of a struggling mankind below. It was certainly the kind of window that the three spirits would find accommodating in earthly visitation that’s for sure. But it all seemed ethereal in so many ways......some of it could be simply explained by the fact I was looking down at the snowy trail I walked a thousand eventful times as a child, on the way to and from Bracebridge Public School, or onward to the arena for a game of minor hockey. I could see my own ghost, and the figures of my old chums, some who were by that time deceased. It was painfully nostalgic as I did cherish my childhood, growing up in this curious little town, straddling the 45th parallel of latitude.
There were many occasions that evening when I did turn around quickly to catch the interloper, who was trying to see what I was wrapping. The first four or five times I was sure a family member had crept up those steps at the back, and had made a couple of footfalls into the room. I was wrong. After awhile it did become rather oppressive, as if something in the house was dissatisfied with the room being used in this fashion. In retrospect I’m not too sure it cared for the writing jags either. There were cold drafts moving the hanging lightbulb overhead, and so many creaking timbers that it sounded like an actual conversation of complainers.
I did not feel the same accommodation was being afforded me this Christmas Eve, as I had been welcomed on so many other nights when writing was the only task. I finished up my wrapping chores and put the parcels back in bags until the morning. I had no intention of hauling them downstairs through the zig-zag of the dark staircase. When I took one final look out the big front window that beautiful winter’s eve, I found myself quite heartsick, longing for those earlier days when snow angels impressed, in the newly fallen snow, had been made by my chums on the joyous trot home from school. As much as it should have been, and had always been to that point uplifting, the residence seemed oppressed by sadness but with no real accounting. I didn’t know this house as well as I thought....its history, its own family legacy. Maybe I was experiencing a sadness from the house not of my own making. I later found this to be somewhat true, and although I couldn’t correlate it to the Christmas season as such, it did involve the loss of a young girl and the misery of a doting father.
As you will read about the McGibbon house throughout this site of recollections about Muskoka and Algonquin ghosts, this was not a house where malevolent spirits dwelled. Maybe a little though provoking, possibly a little unsettling but in no way was the house occupied by a single entity that wasn’t welcoming overall. It had its peculiarities but nothing that was frightening. Every resident in the house over the years just accepted the comings and goings, and bumps in the night, as of the "ordinary kind." We all lived in an ordinary haunted house. But it was remarkable and memorable in so many ways.
As for my attic vigils, I owe it a giant debt of gratitude. It was a wonderful place to write about history and philosophy, and to be an apprentice bard. It was moody and brooding at times but then so was I, thus there was a balance achieved. I will never forget the wonderful contribution that old house made to a fledgling writer, who cherished the upstairs view of "Our Town."
Merry Christmas!

More historical research underway into old ghosts, old ways, and grand old haunts in Muskoka
My newest efforts to detail the paranormal characteristics of Muskoka involve much more historical research, as left by some of the well known....and some "not so well known" authors from the era of the pioneer homesteads across the hinterland. I’m up to my neck in old books and loving every moment of it. It just feels right to be in the company of so much important heritage about our region, our province and country.
As a first installment of many more entries to come, I have given a brief overview of our region’s first encounters with the spirit tradition. It dates back to the First People’s cultural beliefs in the spirits of earth and the universe, of nature and storm, sky and season. Take a few moments to visit my newly launched website at www.freewebs.com/hauntedmuskoka , and consult the site regularly for more information about the paranormal heritage of the District of Muskoka.

See Ted Currie Ghost Website at
http://hauntedmuskoka.webs.com/

PICTURE OF A GHOST?
This is a photograph of a ghost? It was taken at the former McGibbon House, on Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, Ontario. (It was torn down a number of years ago). You can read more about the ghost(s) of McGibbon House by referencing back in this collection of blog entries. The black and white image above was one frame of dozens taken with a motor-wind on my news-issue 35mm camera back in the early 1980's. But it was the only frame showing the arc of mist just above and overlapping the door frame itself. It was taken of a doorway into a small hall, where every night at about the same time my cat "Animal" would jump off the small sofa, and stare up at the kitchen wall.
After many months of this happening, and not being able to figure out what was attracting the cat’s attention, I set myself up this particular evening, with a camera, flash and some patience. Within only minutes of my setting up, Animal jumped down and wandered toward the open door, sitting beside the old rocking chair, and on cue looking up. If you see the cat, follow its glance upwards and you will see the misty and curved vapor on the door frame itself. If you draw a line from the cat’s nose to the vapor it’s not far fetched at all to believe this was the object of its curiosity.
I remember shooting about a full roll of 24 frames on this occasion but when my photo technician processed the film the next day, there was only one frame that contained this peculiar half ring of mist. It was determined not to be a light flare or lens flaw as all the other photographs taken with that same camera and lens were perfect......even the ones shot at the same time from the same position.
The event only ever lasted a few moments and just as I was scrambling in my camera bag for another roll of film, Animal had turned and trotted back to the couch to resume his cat-nap. The same thing happened many more nights that year and Animal reacted the same each time. What is curious, if you cross reference stories about the McGibbon homestead, is that my first major paranormal encounter in the house, was experienced on the back stairs several years earlier, just a few feet from where this photograph was taken. I went through the back door into a dark stairway one night, after working at my typewriter in the attic office, and was preparing to head down one more flight of stairs to a lower apartment,.....when without any warning, I walked into a literal wall of damp, chilled, blinding white vapor......contrasted so starkly from the blackness on this second floor landing. It was quite an experience and is detailed in the larger story about the McGibbon House. I suppose this vapor could have been a repeat performance in a very haunted back section of an historic Bracebridge house. Only Animal knew for sure.

A Writer’s Contentment in a Haunted Woodlands
On the cusp of Christmas, in 1977, I remember feeling pretty contented as a young man returning to his hometown with a university degree and some ambitious plans. My mother Merle used to remind me I possessed an unusually large volume of "vim and vinegar." I guess she approved of my willingness to try just about anything in life. My first intention was to open up a small antique shop on the main street of Bracebridge, which was done before the Christmas season that same year. The second was to embark on a career in writing. By 1978 I had my first published column in the local press, on the subject of Antiques and Collectibles. I was very soon after, to be part of the founding executive of the Bracebridge Historical Society. Yes, I was reasonably contented you might say. Add to this a future editorship with the local press and a curatorial position with the new museum the Historical Society was about to launch. I was pretty excited about being home. And by the way, at that time, most university grads from our ballywick, didn’t think it much of an accomplishment to finish with a degree and then move back home. I could never understand their reasoning but then I’ve always be particularly fond of home and all its nurturing qualities.
On one bitterly cold evening in mid-December, I decided to take a little late afternoon ski on a newly created trail running from what is known as Kerr Park, adjacent to the Muskoka River. My girlfriend wasn’t coming home from Toronto until later that evening so I thought there was plenty of time for a several mile ski junket to enjoy the Muskoka winterscape. It was beautiful in every way. I stopped frequently to admire the painted winter valley and hillsides.
Growing up in Muskoka I had long been fascinated by forests, lowlands, cliffsides, meadows, and all mysterious natural places. If my mother couldn’t locate me on the first few bellows from our apartment up on Alice Street, she knew I’d be over in Bamford’s Woods next-door, either up in a tree or playing cops and robbers with the local lads. It didn’t matter what season it was....I’d be on a hillside, lowside or any side that had trees, rocks, and a plethora of wildlife in all forms. On hot summer days Bamford’s Woods was always at its most enchanting and it was a perfect place for a daydreaming kid to hang-out with a pop in the cool shade, soothingly amidst that magical trickle of mosaic sunlight coming down through the hardwoods and scraggly evergreens.
I have never looked at such magnificent natural scenes here in Muskoka, and not found them sprinkled liberally with what some would call....the paranormal....not the paranormal that would make you feel anxious or frightened. I have always had a rather curious pre-occupation with what surrounds me on nature walks for example;.....what is it about the environs on that occasion which has made it all seem so welcoming and comforting to a weary, long-travelled soul. I’m the same today and there is still a keen attraction for me, to wander about the vast woodlands in quest of mystery and discovery.....and I’m seldom disappointed. If you were ask me if I’d seen any ghosts on my travels.....I’d have to respond, "Of course." The ghosts I witness are not fantastic or frightening enough for the pulp non-fiction racks at the local drug-store. They are subtle ghostly experiences from the interplay of life and nature on our everyday world......the sensation on a countryside stroll that someone is walking at our side, or that a child’s hand has just then brushed yours.....or that a particular scent of wildflowers and wash of wind against your face has reminded you of a deceased family member, a lover, an old and dear friend who might have walked this same path many times in the past. They are as real as if a textbook-defined ghost met you on a dark corner of winding lane or crept out of an old homestead with creaking door and rattling latch. Just because there is no defining image or reality to photograph doesn’t mean an absence of spirit-kind. By being perceptive, and open to all types of sensory stimulation, you will find plenty of company on your countryside strolls.
On this particular skiing adventure, I travelled eastward along the trail for what seemed to be a distance of several miles but I was enjoying myself so much that I didn’t really pay much attention to how long it was going to take backtracking to the ski chalet. I came through a canopy of snow-laden evergreens on what appeared to be a country lane and into a vastly different topography.....a lowland full of dead trees and a sharp, snowless rock wall marking the most striking contrast in landscape, just to my left..... and straight ahead I could see a thickening of trees on the lane and a substantial hillside, with an even narrower path which a few skiers had passed that same day. Most had stayed below and turned to the left to avoid the climb. At about the three quarters elevation on the icy trail I got my first glimpse of the old farmhouse I had been told existed, although I’d never seen it before.....always quitting the outing just short of this barely visible, grown-over path winding up to the front porch. I must admit it was a striking image on a declining winter afternoon, adorned by the wreath of snow on evergreen and the silver crystals of windblown ice making it appear quite legendary.
I stood just below the house for several moments in awe of this isolated old farmstead, thinking about what it must have looked like when it housed a family so many Christmases earlier......and there was a pathetic, sad aura attached that I have never forgotten more than thirty years later. Maybe it was looking for some memorial it had never received; recognition by someone passing by that there were proud spirits here.....strong, lasting memories, lives spent, emotions expended, new lives commenced and futures determined. If none of the others, who had skied by this place, had felt the presence of the spirit-kind on that old homestead hillside, I most definitely did. In fact I remained at the homestead, on that near-Christmas Eve, until darkness enveloped the landscape, frozen white in history. I could feel the kinship of this ramshackle, half-fallen farmhouse that was emanating from within.......and it was as if this windowless old structure was crying that night.
I had watched the contrasts in the winterscape as it effected the patina of this homestead. From the sparkling sunlight and dazzling diamond prisms of frost-laden air, the homestead evolved gradually....poetically in sentiment, from the reality of its modern dilapidation to, in the late afternoon low-light, looking elegantly mournful......and then in the early evening winter-glow of moon reflecting off the snow, the ghosts of the past floated across this hillside as if butterflies across its spring meadow. On many occasions I thought I saw lights-on in the upper rooms of the house but on closer inspection it was the play of the remaining shards of glass sparkling in the moonlight. I thought there were voices coming from behind me a couple of times, and I assumed that skiers were heading home down the trail. But none ever passed where I was standing. When the wind picked up and sent great sweeping veils of blowing snow across the lowland, and bursting clumps from the towering evergreens, this spot on earth was overflowing with enchantments. I could hear sleigh-bells at one point and singing.....even the sound of pots hitting pots from a busy kitchen, which I later thought was most likely an animal rummaging inside the dwelling. This was the perfect place for the mind to play its tricks. It was perfect for the raising of hob-goblins and wee beasties, and might have been a scene penned by Washington Irving or Charles Dickens. Yet it was an honest experience that made one truly appreciate the dimensions of time and space, light and shadow, and the intricate details of man within nature, normal and the paranormal.
It was a Muskoka scene that has remained with me most of my life and it has been documented in quite a few stories and feature articles published over the past thirty years in a variety of publications. Not because it was the most haunted place I’ve ever witnessed.....but because it was the most haunting place I’ve ever studied.....and not actually having experienced anything that was by itself, proof that something paranormal was indeed going on. This was however, the adventure that made me realize just how incredible the interplay of man and nature, and how we have come to ignore so much of what is important and life-enhancing about the world around us. As Washington Irving portrayed the historic Hudson River Valley as being substantially haunted by a myriad of entities large and small, including phantom sailing ships and their ghostly crews, it was easy, in this snowy, moonlit environs to believe in the interplay of nature on the vast dimensions of the supernatural......such that, yes, this homestead was indeed haunted but not in the way every passerby would agree. No ghost was going to stand there in the centre of the path demanding a toll, or that ominous, ill-tempered entities were going to put fear into hearts by sudden emergence from dark places on this hillside. This was a perception deal. If you were sensitive to the paranormal range of activities, then there wasn’t reason to question the house’s internal unrest. If you were disinterested in anything but the physical enterprise of skiing then it’s unlikely the sight of the old home caused much more than a question about its present ownership or whether it still had an outhouse.
What I discovered on that evening which was much more profound, I believe, than if I had actually come in contact with the ghosts of its Christmas past, was this incredible sensation of the supernatural....... as it related to me in this particular location, at this precise moment, to experience in solitude, history, reality, memory and its sensory stimulation amidst a most powerfully moving and lonely landscape of life and after-life’s "light and shadow." Much like what Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson felt while painting the Northern Lights as they manifested in the autumn over the Algonquin Lakes.....and that admirers of his finished studies would eagerly confess made them feel cold and so very lonely. It was very similar to this homestead scene then, being consumed by winter’s haunting calm.....when for this watcher in the woods, even the sight of a ghostly waif in a pale white shroud wouldn’t have surprised or frightened me. I felt in company of many such paranormal entities on the evergreen-wreathed hillside that night, and never once did I feel unsettled or discontent. They needed to confide in me and I needed to know they existed to my perception.
I skied down the winding farm lane to the connecting trail back to Kerr Park, and felt great awe seeing that barrens of dead trees and cliffside bathed in milky moonlight. It was a Group of Seven art panel I was skiing through....and all that was missing on this night was the howling wolves and blizzard that never came. When I looked back at the old house on the hill, I had come down too far to see it clearly once more, though I do remember offering it a Christmas blessing before I finally trundled off down the icy course. The vision of that house is as clear today in recollection, as it was when I first saw it, in the crisp and clear December light in which it had been so mysteriously illuminated, from the dark and ominous background of overgrown pine and cedar.
Washington Irving once wrote, in his sketches from the 1820's, that while botanists and scientists can reduce existence of one and all, flora and fauna, to a most minute reckoning of life’s components, there is still room for the expectation and imagination of those seeking out enchantments, whether they be the fairy-kind or other.....and noting that it would indeed by a very dull world if it wasn’t for the realm of possibility.....and that one day, while travelling the same woodlands as I, you might find the remains of a fairy ring near the mushrooms, evidence that there just may be things left in this grand old world that still can’t be explained......and that’s all right with us dreamers and intrepid explorers who live for discovery.
I have always believed Muskoka woodlands to be haunted. I will always believe Muskoka to be a very spiritual place on earth. As a writer, in the spirit of Washington Irving, and sharing the vision of artists like Tom Thomson, I will carry on enjoying the permeation of lore and legend and enthusiastically receive discovery when afforded me. While I don’t believe Muskoka is any more enchanted than other places on earth......it is none the less, my enchanted home district and I’m enjoying every moment in its kindly embrace.

Folklore and traditions brought to Muskoka by settlers -
Part of Muskoka heritage most often forgotten - neglected - dismissed as unimportant

One of the first major research projects I undertook as a fledgling regional historian, was an in-depth examination of the Icelandic settlers arriving in the Muskoka district during the early 1870's.......homesteading in vicinity of the hamlet of Rosseau, on hilly and rough terrain they called Hekkla, also the name belonging to a legendary volcano in Iceland. It has never really been explained to me whether or not this was a reference to a miserable place to settle or it was just a comfortable namesake from the home region. Considering the damage done by the volcano over the centuries to Iceland, it’s somewhat hard to imagine it being an entirely complimentary reference. Possibly it was the case that if a volcano could be dealt with in the homeland, this treed and rocky terrain could be equally accommodated by adjustment and industrious pursuit.
The settlers landed here with very little understanding of the english language and they arrived in a region known for its particularly dense forests. Unfortunately this was not presented to them ahead of arrival. As Iceland’s climate and active volcanoes limited the number of trees in their country, one might imagine their chagrin arriving in the Canadian woodlands in the cusp of a winter season......and seeing vast stands of pine where they had expected clearings and arable farmland. They had been duped by immigration and steamship-line agents, as many significant promises were broken......from provision shortfalls, to non–existent employment opportunities, and claims of large tracts of good farmland.....somewhere beneath those towering pines and the massive web of roots over a thin layer of rock. Some settlers decided to leave, shortly after arriving, but those who stayed created a strong and neighborly hamlet still alive and well after all these years. They used the forests to their advantage and built log cabins and barns, and gained concessions from the government for clearing timber off planned roadways through the region.
Muskoka had many European settlers arrive here in those early years and a walk through some of the pioneer cemeteries will reveal just how many cultures have been represent in this part of rural Canada since the first settlers of the late 1850's onward. What is often neglected by regional historians is that these settlers brought their beliefs and traditions with them, and while they may have been somewhat diluted from the home country, it is obvious when examining the earliest pioneer accounts, that cultural identities, tradition and religious beliefs brought from the so called "Old Country," were important and most definitely part of every day life and times.
And they brought their superstitions, fears, concepts of ghosts, hob-goblins, witches, the devil, fairies, sprites, leprechauns, ogres, trolls.....the list goes on and on. When you seek out a cultural profile of Muskoka you really do have to consider how it all began and although it’s true there has been a decade by decade diluting of those early cultural differences due to generational influences and modern times, it’s important to appreciate how these beliefs and traditions survived in those early years, making the new arrivals to the region feel they had successfully established "home."
Consider as well that the Town of Bracebridge, in the summer of 1864, was named after a book written by American author Washington Irving, creator of such memorable characters as Ichabod Crane, the Headless Horseman and Rip Van Winkle. The book was called "Bracebridge Hall," and is an intertwining collection of stories generated in part from the grand estate of Squire Bracebridge, the steward of Bracebridge Hall.....this being a follow-up book to the original Sketch-Book of 1919, when the Bracebridge family was introduced into the collection of stories stretching from British soil to the Haunted Hudson of New York State. A Canadian Federal Postal authority in the 1860's, William Dawson LeSueur, (also a well known literary critic and historian in his spare time) borrowed the name as a tribute to Irving who had recently passed away, and gave it to the fledgling community informally known as North Falls, situated on a major cataract of the Muskoka River. As for stories of mystery and legend, Bracebridge got a literary bonus being tied to one of the most famous authors in history......and entitlement to this writer’s curious characters such as the good Mr. Crane and the headless horseman......still celebrated by a few loyalists each Hallowe’en. It has only been in recent years that the connection between Irving and the Town of Bracebridge, has been more thoroughly cultivated and celebrated, with annual Bracebridge Hall Christmas dinners being held as fundraisers for the local theatre.....in honor of this international literary legacy. While the connection has been known for many decades, and Bracebridge Hall dinners have been held previously, the connection between author and town has never been a focal point or of much interest. As author of a book on the subject in 2000, I intended to change this apathy and inspire a more thorough appreciation of what such a connection can bestow upon a willing and interested community. While there are still no Irving festivals being planned, there is a gradual opening-up to the possibilities of this important literary association.
There are several historic references to the fears and superstitions brought to Muskoka from abroad, as contained in a number of important early books that I would like to share with readers. The first is a story of fear for the surroundings and this was quite understandable. As I noted with the Icelandic settlers, the Muskoka vista was one of dense bush, deep, dark and threatening. If you happened to believe in the wee beasties and hob-goblins that dwell in such untouched, mysterious places, Muskoka was loaded to the hilt with the stuff of legend.
Consider as well that many pioneers were from well populated centers in Europe, some having never lived or even visited a rural area in their own country. Arriving in what was frequently called "a God forsaken" region, it’s logical that many were not going to survive......and would either flee to the urban landscape, a new "lesser-treed" region, or perish as the government anticipated well in advance of welcoming these new Canadians to the land of adventure. There is clear evidence that the Agricultural wing of government, even by the 1880's, knew full well there would be many personal tragedies in the homestead grant districts, when they decided to open new lands for settlement, and had as much budgeted for "acceptable loss"of homesteaders......only hoping only that there would be more who stuck-it-out, than those who quit or perished. The outcome would determine if this Muskoka district experiment could work in other harsh environs.....where settlers would overcome almost insurmountable odds to build modest farmsteads. Out of exhaustion and trepidation for a hostile environs, brewed a horror for some......in this particular case, a husband and wife (mid 1860's) who had become lost in the haunted woods, as told by author Thomas McMurray, in his book "Muskoka and Parry Sound. Now imagine if you can the outright terror of being swallowed up whole by the wilderness, where settlers were miles removed from one another.....and rescue was only a slight possibility.
Consider the lost couple’s religious and cultural beliefs.......and what else did they imagine was hunting them through the inhabited woods.....other than the obvious flies, wolves and bears.
"Lost in the Woods.....The following was written some years ago (prior to 1870), on the occasion of Moses Richardson and his wife getting lost in the woods; Draper township was then but thinly settled, and the sensation it created in the settlement was intense; I (Thomas McMurray) happened to be one of the part who went in search of the missing ones. Persons unacquainted with the bush should be careful not to penetrate too far into it, unless provided with a compass. ‘What means this blowing of horns, firing of arms, and the off-repeated Hoop, whoo that greets the ear and arrests the attention of every settler?’ A man and his wife are lost in the woods is the prompt and excited reply. How sad is every countenance, how agitated every breast, how anxious every neighbor! The unhappy pair had gone in search of their cattle, mistaken their way, and got lost in the dense forest; with wild desperation they are forcing their way through the thicket of swamp, or ascending the rugged mountain’s brow, or climbing over logs vainly in search of the home they left; but alas they are totally bewildered and every step they take leads them farther from the dearest spot on earth....home sweet home.
"The neighbors now begin to collect from all points of the compass; they form themselves into companies, and decide what the signal shall be in case the unhappy wanderers are found. Animated by a noble philanthropy they start, cheered by the happy thought of saving the lost; for hours they pursue their difficult task; crossing deep gullies, ascending almost perpendicular heights, then going down steep precipices, they onward go; the sun begins to sink in the western sky, the shades of evening fall upon them, the dark curtains of night at length are thrown around them; to proceed further would be folly; in the dark they might pass the objects of their search; an eminence is sought and a fire is kindled, in order to attract the notice of the lost ones; the searchers gather around it; a little bread and pork, with some bright water from the brook that flows at the mountain’s base, form their evening meal; no levity characterizes their conduct; there is but one expression visible on each countenance, and that is sadness; hemlock brush is cut and spread that the weary searchers may rest themselves thereon; sleep is out of the question; their trouble is too deep to enjoy nature’s sweet restorer of balmy sleep. The solemn words, ‘Let us pray,’ for the first time are repeated in this dense forest; and, on the still evening air, prayer ascends to Him who came to save which was lost. (Prayers answered). Here, many miles from any human habitation, prayer for the first time is offered by white men to ‘The Great Spirit,’ the missing ones are not forgotten and earnest supplication is made that God would direct their steps. But what of the poor wanderers? They are weak and faint; hunger drives them to despair and death; death from starvation stares them in the face; the husband, as the only alternative, urges his wife to cut a slice from the calf of his leg in order to satiate her craving for food; but the faithful wife replied that she would rather willingly die with her husband.
‘Moments of anxiety pass, and the long-looked for morning dawns, and the sun begins to peep in the eastern horizon, and after partaking of some refreshment they again start on their mission of humanity; the burning sun beams upon them, they wipe the perspiration from their brows, and the flies from their necks, and uncomplainingly persevere over logs and swamps; now the coat of one of the party is caught on a snag and rent to shivers, while another man’s pants are almost torn from top to bottom. Hark! Hark! The report of firearms informs them of the fact that one of the companies has found the wanderers; all fire off their off their guns in ecstasy and run in the direction of the firing to catch a glimpse of Moses and his wife. Oh, what a sad sight was then presented to their gaze. Poor creatures, how sad their condition, how weak, how changed, what wildness in their eyes; they are mad with fright, and are starving with hunger, as one pipe of tobacco has been all that they have enjoyed for over 48 hours; the realization that they were lost, the fear of death, and the lashings of a guilty conscience for having gone out on the Sabbath-day in search of their cattle......they had been lost once before by disregarding the sacred precept.....remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy; together with their swollen limbs and bleeding forms, completed their misery and made the sight painful to behold; still there was joy mingled with sadness, every eye sparkles with delight, every countenance is lit up with a smile, all share in the triumph, men embrace each other and weep for gladness, while the forest fills with their shouting and rejoicings. A little nourishment having been administered to the sufferers, the friends form themselves in procession and take turns carrying the weak ones home; after reaching the log cabin and bidding them an affectionate farewell, they turn their steps homewards with a murmur, although they have travelled many weary miles by a burning sun, and as they proceed they inform every one they meet of the good news. ‘They’re found, they’re found!’.....and all join in a sincere and hearty ‘Thank God, thank God!’
One certainly gets the opinion after reading this that the Devil was lurking in those forboding woods for unsuspecting, naive, and vulnerable wanderers......who should have been more keenly observing the Sabbath instead.
In another reference, Thomas McMurray does make an observation that hasn’t been repeated in history.....or so as far as we historians know.....and as a mystery of our region, it is most definitely worth repeating. It happened in area of Muskoka Falls, just south of the urban area of Bracebridge, at a cataract on the Muskoka River known historically as the Great Falls.
"The Grand Muskoka Falls are always attractive to tourists, and much admired by the lovers of nature. In the spring of 1866 a scene of unusual interest presented itself. In former years the spray had formed an arch of the Falls but on this occasion it assumed the form of a cone with a crater, and from its mouth the spray came boiling forth in awful grandeur, ascending at least 100 feet. It might be compared to a mighty, massive silver fountain, sending forth its sparkling waters. Any one who has witnessed Vesuvius burning in his fury may form some conception of this grand site. As I gazed upon the scene a double rainbow spanned the Falls; countless icicles were hanging from the branches of the tall pines as they bent gracefully over the cataract, and I wished that the world might be privileged with the sight. I drove some distance in order to get an artist to take a negative but the spray was so great that a good picture could not be obtained."
There was great reverence to the nature of Muskoka that came in a variety of forms, from what McMurray reported about the ice and steam of the Great Falls, to the story of the husband and wife lost in the treacherous woods.....as if the forest was a hungry, malevolent force looking for anyone who did not have God’s blessing to enter.
In another fascinating story of an early pioneer family, and the first significant reference to the paranormal, in this homestead era of Muskoka, circa the 1860's, family historian Bert Shea, in his book, "History of The Sheas and Birth of a Township," includes the following tale of one neighbor’s unexpected favor to another homesteader in distress: (The Coming of the Lovelys, circa 1865, page 70-71)
"Pat Lovely, a stout, heavy bodied man, born in Ireland, a shoemaker by trade, migrated to Canada and settled around or near Sarnia, moving to County of York where he traded twelve pairs of men’s hand-made boots for one hundred acres where sits the St. Clair Railway Station, who from there, having heard the call of free grant land in Muskoka, with his young wife and family of small children joined, in the great move northward, their destination Watt Township and the Three Mile Lake settlement of Ufford. Journeying by rail as far as their iron run, then on foot, carrying their belongings, stopping somewhere within the boundary of Muskoka for a night’s lodging.
"And in conversing with others, someone inquired where his destination lay, to which Pat answered, Watt Township. ‘Ah,’ says his friend, ‘I would advise you to stay away from there; in that Three Mile Lake settlement, there area a bunch of human savages. Around Three Mile Lake, that place is known far and near as the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves and before you is the centre of it. On your way in you will come over Bogart’s Hill and before you is the place known as the Devil’s Den, and the next big hill you look down is Smalley’s Hill, and that is the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves. They will poison your cattle, they will burn you out. You will never get along, you are Irish Roman Catholic and they are all Orangemen. A blast like this to a man on his way to a new home, among strangers, a law-abiding citizen and a young family, was a terrible dampner to his aspirations. Pat stood silent and motionless for a short time in deep thought. Then turning around facing the direction of his journey, in a low voice and Irish accent says he...’I’m going anyway!’
"Pat arrived in Ufford in the dark dreary month of November in the late afternoon. The heavy clouds skudded across the sky, borne on the northwest wind. Darkness creeping down as he travelled over Bogart’s Hill and through the Devil’s Den. And over Smalley’s Hill into the home of the Three Mile Lake Wolves, to the centre of the valley. And wending in the darkness up the brush trail into his little shanty on the hillside, the naked limbs clashed in the wind overhead, low whirling blasts swirled the dead leaves around, the little shanty door creaked as he swung it open to admit the good wife and children. In the dim light of the little lantern he started a fire on the hearth, that brought light and cheer. This was their fair home.
"It is hard to know what thoughts may have run through the mind of an Irishman awakened by the voices of wind or the night moanings of the trees. And above all the recommendations he had received on his way in, from his friend at the tavern, regardless of thoughts of feelings that may have reigned in the heart and mind of Pat Lovely, prayers were said and all was left in the keeping of the Good Saint and the little family slept, as only they of clean conscience and weary from their travel. The morning broke. Pat and the good woman were astir, the children’s voices were heard and little feet pattered about the shanty. The suddenly from the cover of thick bush walked a tall black-whiskered man. He walked directly to the cabin door. Pat met him at the step, he an Irishman whose face wore the scars of fighting in Ireland, and ready for the worst. Not saying a word, the stranger strode to with arms length of Pat and stopped, looking the Irishman in the eyes, extending his hand saying.... ‘I’m Bill Shea. I believe you are Pat Lovely.’ ‘It’s Pat Lovely I am,’ says he, as he slowly accepted the outstretched hand as a female voice from within the shanty proclaimed, ‘May the Gods in mercy give us peace.’
"What else was said we do not know but from that day on the Lovelys and Sheas were the best of friends. This friendship extended from neighbors to neighbors till Pat became the Irish seasoning in a mixed community. But as time went on, he became regarded by some in a very serious way. As one who possessed certain powers that were mysterious, which he could use in different ways. One most talked of, especially by young people who declared to be true, that Pat had the power to put himself in a 45 gallon oak barrel with both ends closed, the only opening being the two inch bung out of which he would talk to them. (He could also place curses if need be, as was the case with William Kay’s pigs that continually got into and destroyed Pat’s potato crop.....a curse that would last 20 years, and cause a decline in the subject pig population)
"The following account is a true happening and known throughout the neighborhood. Though years have passed since its time, the writer has often heard the aged of the community relate this marvellous affair.
"A neighbor boy of ten or twelve years had got seriously cut and was bleeding to death. The bed was soaked with blood. All efforts to save the boy seemed to be a failure; he could not last much longer. The father walked out of the house, leaving the mother and the boy alone; as he stood before the door the thought came to him. He immediately called the younger son, a boy of perhaps nine years old, saying ‘Go over and tell Pat to come over here quick....your brother is bleeding to death.’ The young son fleet as the wind, lost no time on the run and delivered the message. As the father of the bleeding boy stood on the door yard waiting to see Pat’s sturdy body coming hurriedly over the fields. But not so; he appeared from the door of his own house. Before the door, he stood looking over to his troubled neighbor for a short time in whose interval the mother of the bleeding boy rushed out the door to the father saying the blood has stopped. The writer heard the father when an old man declared the truth of the whole affair, saying ‘Pat didn’t need to come over. He could stop the blood from where he was and the boy got better."
The stories collected by Bert Shea are some of the most significant cultural records in the district, and his two books contain many important references to tradition, folklore, cultural heritage and both family and regional history.
A Spiritual Place for Some
A well known writer of considerable acclaim told me one day that artists and poets have long found Muskoka a spiritual place. I must have, in some way offended her with rolled eyes or a look of disinterest, because she grabbed my arm and stated once again..... "This isn’t just my opinion.....it’s the opinion of many poets and artists who found this an inspiring location to work," because of some extraordinary spiritual connection you might say. Not wanting to offend her for a second time, I listened carefully to her explanation. There wasn’t really any tangible list of reasons why she believed in its spiritual effervescence but she finally said to me..... "You know what I mean as a writer yourself, don’t you?" I had to think about it for awhile then.....and in fact, it has been on my mind for the past several decades. In my own opinion she had a valid point but it’s just not easy to explain. I’ve always been particularly susceptible to things that abut or enter the paranormal including the sensation of being in a spiritually charged setting. As a self-proclaimed landscape writer, I have experienced many enchantments up close and personal in the past 30 years of hiking the woodlands of this region. While at the time she had caught me off guard, I did understand her reference to Muskoka’s spiritual ambience. If you’re a writer or artist, musician or philosopher, hobby or otherwise, who has sat along the lakeshore on a summer evening, you’ve known then the subtle, haunting heartsong of the angel’s harp, and the gentle ease by which the spirit rises from its mortal host......the subtle enchantment of solitude, and its gentle play on the creative disposition. Yes indeed, I have long known Muskoka as a spiritual place.....and in the coming blog entries over the next few months I would like to introduce you to some aspects of Muskoka’s artistic, paranormal heritage that is avoided by historians.......because it is by far more spiritual than factual......closer to paranormal than actual......and it doesn’t have a cornerstone mounted on the side with a time capsule insulated inside. The stories are just stories but no less important to the cultural heritage of our region of Canada.
Some of this will, in part, pertain to the curiosity and literary provenance of having Washington Irving’s name associated with the history of Muskoka......and as he examined the phantom ships on the Hudson River, a Headless Horseman and the disappearance of the good Mr. Crane, we’ll have a wee look at some of our own home grown phantoms, sightings, meetings, and other "passing in the night" events........a rail employee who was decapitated when he fell from a moving train north of Bracebridge....who may still be looking for his head, to a phantom lady in a Victorian gown who can’t get used to her final resting spot in a Milford Bay Cemetery.....and gets her hem caught on the fence trying to step out of the graveyard......to voices from a burial ground calling to passersby for their attention to their plight. They aren’t frightening stories but interesting tales worth re-telling.

Sunset encounters with the lone Algonquin canoeist
My very first trip to Algonquin Park after beginning research on the mysterious death of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, began and ended at the Tea Lake Dam. It had been one of Thomson’s favorite fishing locations, from the rocks bordering the rapids below the old dam. When I made my way down to the water-side that first day, it was as if I truly expected to encounter in one form or another,... his spirit, still hovering in the mist prevailing over that peaceful Algonquin alcove of water, rock and forest. It was as if for a moment in time, I was allowed to walk into one of his paintings to see from the inside out, how his inspiration had manifested by brush and paint onto board. I sat on a fallen log for a long while, listening to the gentle wash of shallow water rushing over the rocks mid-stream. When the sun burned away the morning vapor, the sunlight dazzled on the water as if there were diamonds tumbling along in the current. My sons threw small stones into the dark water to watch the splash and ripples generate in the sunglow, and giggled when the chilled water penetrated their shoes.....and toes. It was poetry in art. It was the comforting natural embrace of a most beautiful place on earth.....a place you could not casually dismiss, or forget amidst the memories of a million other visitations abroad over a lifetime. Here was the portal into legend, an entrance I willingly stepped through, in my own adventures into contentment, as author David Grayson once wrote about spiritual re-awakening, and explorations in nature.
I’ve spent many hours paddling the Algonquin lakes visiting places that had encouraged his studies and invigorated his ambition to capture stirring lakeland scenes from sunset and storm to spring re-awakening and haunted, spirit-full forests. On cold autumn evenings my wife and sons would sit for hours watching the fanning colors of the Northern Lights, over Tea Lake, another quality of the environment that had intrigued Thomson. There were friends and admirers of his work, who paid particular attention to his sketches of these enchanted rainbow lights, some remarking to him that the scenes were "cold and lonely" in appearance, and that pleased the artist, as this is what he had intended.
Whether we have been traversing picturesque Tea Lake, Canoe Lake, Smoke Lake or our favorite Rock Lake near the east gate, there is always a wonderful lingering aura of Tom Thomson....and many vistas around these lakes, at all times of the year and day, can remind one in a subtle way, of an Algonquin sketch made by his hand ninety two years earlier.
Those long time admirers of Thomson’s powerful landscapes may agree that Algonquin is forever haunted by his lake traverses by grey-green canoe. Pleasantly haunted of course. Each year there is a Thomson sighting.....a lone canoeist paddling gently, just after sunset, heading toward the watcher, only to disappear as strangely as it first appeared on the horizon. In William Little’s book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," 1970, McGraw-Hill, pages 98-100, there is the first reference to the ghost of Tom Thomson.
There were persistent, year after year claims, all part of the escalating Tom Thomson legend, "that former guides had seen Tom in his canoe in various places in the Park. One such experience is described by a prominent summer resident in Algonquin Park only a few miles away from Canoe Lake. Mrs. Northway, her husband, and daughter Mary were vacationing in their beautiful summer home, Nominigan, on the east side of Smoke Lake. They had as their guest Mr. Lawren Harris, one of the Group of Seven’s leading artists and a close friend of Tom Thomson. Miss Northway recounts the following story, written verbatim as told her by her mother in 1931: ‘It was a very calm day last summer when my guide and I had been in a hidden, hill-locked lake, with the most diabolical modern apparatus to ensnare any unfortunate fish who would be taken in by the flashy advertising on a first class, well-hooked spinner. We had been up at dawn, and had travelled from lake to lake across portages which made my city lungs gasp, and over long stretches of still blue water into ponds where lilies bloomed. The winds had slept all day. We had talked through the hours, my guide and I, for he, as he smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, could discourse on many a thing and could weave tales of adventure or truth in which the incidents were all seen as under a strong magnifying glass.
‘It had been a happy day and ever so lazy. At dusk we were coming home, tired, rested, and at peace with the world. It was a tremendously still evening, you could hear the silence sing against your ear. The hills made strange, statuesque, figures against the haunting orange of the western sky, while the first star set its light akindle, as an altar lamp of the universe against the canopy of the afterglow. Even my guide’s tales had ceased, and through my mind drifted fragments of harmonies as if heard from a far away cello. Suddenly the voice of my guide shattered the silence. ‘They’re coming out to meet us from the portage.’ And turning toward the sunset I saw a man kneeling in a canoe that slowly came towards us. ‘So they are,’ I answered. ‘I guess we are pretty late.’
‘My guide turned from his course in order that we might better meet our herald, now a little less than a hundred yards away. I raised my voice and called and waved my hand, while my guide kept paddling toward the camper. But there was no response, for even as we looked the canoe and its paddler, without warning or sound, vanished into nothingness, and on the undisturbed lake were only our lonely selves and the shrieking loon." Miss Northway, in re-telling her mother’s story stated that "My father and Mr. Taylor-Statten, being practical people, on hearing the tale insisted it had been a mirage, but Lawren (Harris), a theosophist, was sure it was the spirit of Tom Thomson. His rationale was that those who depart before their time continue to haunt the lands they loved. My mother was inclined to accept Lawren’s interpretation much to my father’s disgust. A point that was much discussed but never settled, was what colour shirt was Tom wearing when he was drowned. (The ghost paddler had been wearing a yellow shirt)"
According to William Little, "This story of the phantom canoeist has become part of the saga of Tom Thomson. Lawren Harris, one of the last surviving members of the Group of Seven (now deceased), verified the above experience of his friend."
Maybe you are reminded of this curious presence while sitting at fireside, when you casually glance out onto the lake to admire the final rays of the July sun disappearing below the evergreen ridge. Possibly the sound of wind etching down across the hollows of the rock landscape, singing through the pines and knocking about the leaning birches, will remind you of a painter once. And maybe it will be the sound of water in the deep of night, lapping at the shore, that reminds you of the mysterious paddler, traversing the dreamy solitude, looking for a kindred spirit to awaken to the legend in which he dwells. It is not disturbing at all, to be in company of such an acquaintance.....enriching the grandness of Algonquin.
I would be delighted, absolutely enthralled, to have such an opportunity, to witness this spirited traverse of a misty Algonquin lake. Yet I have never visited this enchanted region of Ontario, and not, in some subtle way, been reminded of Thomson’s enduring stewardship of these magnificent lakes and forests.
Visit Algonquin Park this season and enjoy its spell-binding ambience. Just watch for crossing moose and other park wildlife. And watch for the lone canoeist!

Accidental drowning or a case of murder?
The Tom Thomson mystery officially began on July 8th, 1917
By Ted Currie
The water on Canoe Lake this morning mirrors the August sky. There is a deep and limitless blue over silver, wavering in the reflection of paradise on earth. A canoe and paddler silhouettes against the rising sun, as its route crosses a thick background of lush evergreens. It is a haunted lakeland. It’s no wonder Canadian landscape artist Tom Thomson adored this place.
"Mark Robinson (Algonquin Park Ranger) stated that as soon as he heard of the discovery of Tom’s (Thomson) canoe from Charlie Scrim, he began searching the shores of Canoe Lake from Tea Lake dam in the south, up through log-jammed Bonito Lake, a connecting water link between Canoe and Tea Lakes," wrote Judge William Little, in his book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," published in 1970 by McGraw-Hill.
"The search began the morning of July 11th, and continued during the next four days without the discovery of a single clue. A number of local citizens took part in this time-consuming and intense investigation of every bay, inlet, and portage on Canoe Lake. Mark (Robinson), accompanied by his twelve year old son, Jack, traveled miles through the bush as well as back and forth on the portage to Gill Lake, a few miles to the west of Canoe Lake’s southern shoreline," Little notes of the full scale search for Tom Thomson.
"On July 12th George Thomson arrived at Canoe Lake on the evening train. After discussing his brother’s disappearance with Mark (Robinson), who met him at the station, George examined his brother’s canoe and talked with guides and residents of the area. He came to share the general view that it was hardly likely that Tom had come to any grief while on the water, and thought his brother might have left his canoe at a portage while he went to the other side to fish or paint. The mystery was why he would have stayed for so long a period unless he had been hurt or otherwise incapacitated while in the bush."
Judge Little, who had long suspected foul play leading to Thomson’s disappearance, paid attention to the following important details of the failed search: "The guides, particularly George Rowe and Charlie Scrim, were quick to note that Tom’s own working paddle was missing when his canoe was found, and the spare or portaging paddle had been found lashed in a position to portage but had been knotted in a most unorthodox way, as if a much less experienced canoeist than Thomson had tied it. When the guides searched the shoreline they were looking for the working paddle, as well as the artist himself. The paddle was never found which in itself is unusual in view of the concentrated efforts made by the many people working over specific areas. Paddles float."
In the words of Mark Robinson, regarding the failings of the search, "I traveled every day that week in the woods down to the south of us and west of the lake. I covered all that country along with my eldest boy and found no trace of him. I couldn’t find any track or sign of his having crossed Gill Lake. I returned each night and reported to Mr. Bartlett (Park Superintendent). He sent three or four rangers over to help and they traveled the east side of the lake here and the south side, as well as Tea Lake and Tea Lake dam areas. They found no trace of him. Saturday night I’d return late and he (Mr. Bartlett) said; ‘Look Mark, you must be tired traveling so much.’ I said I am but I can still travel more; I’d like to find Thomson. He must have broken a leg or a limb, maybe fallen and injured himself. I have walked all over the bush, I’ve fired shots and I’ve blown my whistle, and he knows my signal with the whistle as well as anyone does, and I have not been able to find him."
In the July 13th issue of the Toronto Globe the headline read, "Toronto Artist Missing In North – Tom Thomson missing from Canoe Lake since Sunday – A Talented Landscapist." The article reads as follows: "Toronto art circles were shocked yesterday at the news received from Algonquin Park that Tom Thomson, one of the most talented of the younger artists in the city, had been missing since Sunday and was thought to have been drowned or the victim of foul play. Mr. Thomson was last seen at Canoe Lake at noon on Sunday (July 8th), and at 3:30 in the afternoon his canoe was found adrift in the lake, upside down. There was no storm, only a light wind prevailing, and the fact that both paddles were in place in the canoe as if for a portage, adds to the mystery… Mr. Thomson carried a light fishing rod and this and his dunnage bag were missing." This contradicts earlier evidence that only one paddle was found awkwardly lashed to the thwart of the canoe.
"On July 14th, George Thomson, in preparation for departure on the evening train, gathered up a number of Tom’s sketches that were among his few belongings," noted Judge Little of the elder brother’s decision to leave before the search had concluded. George Thomson’s departure and removal of some of his brother’s art work continued to be a curiosity to writers such as William Little. It didn’t seem right that he had left Canoe Lake without absolute news regarding the disappearance. George Thomson was fully aware that if his brother had drowned, the body would surface sooner or later, considering the water temperature and conditions of the key waterways. It was one day later in fact, that Dr. Howland, on Little Wapomeo Island, in Canoe Lake, had snagged something or other while fishing, which was most likely Thomson’s submerged body. The next day Dr. Howland spotted something floating in the water in the same general location as his snagged fishing line the evening before. Two local guides passing in a canoe at the time, George Rowe and Lowrie Dickson, were asked by the doctor to check out the object floating in a direct line with Hayhurst Point. It turned out to be the bloated body of Tom Thomson.
What would follow is an impromptu medical examination which would determine that Thomson had been bleeding after falling in the water, meaning it was most likely he had sustained a severe blow to the head but still had a heart beat when he hit the water. There was no water found in the lungs. Yet by Dr. Howland’s autopsy report, the artist had died of drowning. The mystery broadens.
What would be a pivotal decision in the case, was Mark Robinson’s chagrin about leaving Thomson’s badly decomposing body tied to the Canoe Lake shore awaiting the coroner. He paddled to see his superior, Bartlett, and it was agreed an examination and burial that same day, July 17th, should be conducted in respect for the dead. What this did was deny the official coroner, who would come later, the opportunity to examine the body, rather than accepting the autopsy report from Dr. Howland, who had determined the cause of death as accidental drowning. By time the coroner, Dr. Ranney did arrive that same day, July 17, 1917, Thomson had already been buried in the Canoe Lake Cemetery.
Instead of ordering the body be exhumed which he had ever right to insist, he accepted the report of Dr. Howland, and the observations of witnesses at an inquest.
It has long been my own contention, that when those in attendance refused to speak up, after the coroner invited anyone who had suspicions of foul play to present their concerns, the seed of mystery was deeply and profoundly planted in the Canoe Lake community. Many in attendance knew that Thomson was a capable canoeist and the weather of the day had offered no challenge out of the ordinary for such an experienced paddler. They also knew there had been heated words exchanged with cottager Martin Bletcher Jr., the night before his disappearance, at a mutual friend’s cabin; Bletcher suggesting that Thomson should stay out of his way if he knew what was good for him. In fact, the inquest was held in the Bletcher cottager. And no one raised even one concern Thomson could have been the victim of foul play, even though there is evidence some participants in the inquest talked freely of murder once the official part of the meeting had concluded.
If you think the Tom Thomson Mystery is at its end, you’re mistaken. You won’t believe what comes next.
In the meantime, enjoy your travels throughout this beautiful province. Take a drive up to Algonquin Park, and witness for yourself, why the Group of Seven artists found this landscape such a great source of inspiration. But drive carefully and watch for the moose.
Who killed Canadian artist Tom Thomson?
By Ted Currie
The bustle of a summer season in Algonquin Park has become a gentler enterprise around this Canoe Lake community, with the arrival of these first cool days of September. Before the end of this month, the hardwood colors will contrast brilliantly against the evergreens, beneath the calming canopy of azure sky.....beside the tranquil, mirroring water of a legendary Canadian lake, lapping at the bow of a traversing canoe. It is a beautiful time to visit Algonquin.
At this time of year it’s easy to see why Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven artists found Algonquin such a perfect location to paint. Some say that on moonlit autumn nights you can still see Thomson paddling his ghost canoe in those places he haunted during his years living in the community of Mowat. One of his painting colleagues, in a boat crossing an expanse of bay, (sometime after Thomson’s death), claimed he had witnessed his familiar grey-green canoe, and the artist’s silhouette against the last light along the horizon of Canoe Lake. It wasn’t the last sighting either. There have been many since.
It is alleged that Tom Thomson drowned on this lake some time between July 7th and 8th. His body was discovered on July 16th. He was prepared for burial right on the island, and as it turned out, he was buried almost immediately after, on July 17th without a coroner’s inspection of the body.
"The undertakers, Dixon and Flaville, transported the closed casket and rough box to the mainland, where it was placed on an improvised hearse – the Mowat Lodge team-drawn stage that served as transportation for the guests of the Lodge, to and from Canoe Lake Station. It was much more than an open horse-drawn wagon," wrote Judge William Little, author of "The Tom Thomson Mystery."(1970, McGraw-Hill, of Canada, page 61-62). "Due to the rapidity of events and the urgency of an early burial, just over a dozen people attended the interment on the hillside overlooking Canoe Lake, a quarter of a mile to the northwest of Mowat Lodge."
"A hastily organized funeral cortege was headed by the horse-drawn hearse, followed by Martin Bletcher Sr., who was assigned to act as lay minister and read the funeral rites at the graveside; Mark Robinson, Martin Bletcher Jr., his sister Bessie, Mrs. Bletcher, Mrs. Trainor, Mr. Trainor and his daughter, Winnifred, Mr. and Mrs. Ed Colson, a number of Tom’s guide friends, Mr. Charles Plewman of Toronto, and several Lodge guests who were invited to attend. This little funeral party wended its way up the hillside to the tiny Canoe Lake Cemetery. One of the graves dated back to 1897, and contained the remains of a young millhand, James Watson, from Parry Sound, Ontario, who had been killed at the mill on his first day of work. The other grave was that of the young child of a local family, Alexander Hayhurst, buried in 1905 at the age of eight years, a victim of diphtheria. A small picket fence around both plots marked the graves, the only ones known in this area of the Canoe Lake settlement," notes William Little.
It should be noted that Winnifred Trainor was Tom’s girlfriend and it is alleged she was pregnant at the time of Tom’s death. It is also rumored a park cabin had been booked by Thomson for the fall of 1917 as an alleged honeymoon retreat.
One of the sparks of this mystery has always been Little’s contention the body had been hastily buried, possibly to get rid of evidence before the coroner arrived by train to conduct the formal inquest into the artist’s death. He writes, "It has been noted that only a little over 24 hours elapsed between the time Tom’s body was found on July 16, and his burial. The reason for such undue haste is well understood and explained: the state of decomposition was so advanced that the body could not remain unburied any longer than was absolutely necessary. In seeking immediate burial of a friend in such a condition, (Ranger) Mark Robinson did what a sensitive and humane individual might reasonably be expected to do. From a distinctly legal-medical position, the body should not have been buried, however, until a coroner had determined the cause of death, when it occurred and how it occurred.
"The investigation into the death of Tom Thomson was anything but professional or procedural in terms of accepted practice, either at that time or the present. The coroner never saw Tom’s body. No member of his family ever identified or saw his body after his death; although Tom’s brother George, had spent some four days in the area during the search, he did not get to Algonquin Park, nor did any other member of the family before the funeral. Under the circumstances, this was understandable but in no way assists in any appropriate deduction of facts based on accepted practices of normal inquest procedures."
In the words of Dr. Ranney, following the coroner’s report, (keep in mind he didn’t have a body to examine), "There was only one bruise on the right side of the head (as observed by Dr. Howland, who had examined the body after it was discovered), temple region about four inches long. This, no doubt, was caused by striking some obstacle, like a stone, when the body drowned. Dr. Howland swore that death was caused from drowning; also evidence from the other six witnesses points that the cause of death was accidental drowning." Dr. Ranney said at the conclusion of the inquest, "I always like to see a body before making official decisions. However, sometimes it is not possible. This has been one of those occasions."
Those in attendance at the inquest were not unanimous in agreement with the findings of Dr. Howland or Dr. Ranney. When they were invited to speak to the matter however, the room was silent. They openly disagreed with the "drowning" conclusion but let the matter stand, believing they didn’t have enough expertise to overturn the decision of a trained doctor. They were wrong. They most certainly should have noted that Thomson had been in a serious argument the night before he went missing, with Martin Bletcher Jr., and he had warned the artist to keep out of his way if he knew what was good for him." If this had been revealed to the coroner at the time of the inquest, the matter would surely have necessitated exhumation of the Canoe Lake grave. As a matter of some irony the inquest was held in the living room of Martin Bletcher Sr.s’ cottage.
For years there was serious speculation Thomson had been the victim of foul play and most researchers, including Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies, and William Little maintained a focus on several other potential suspects beyond the threats uttered by Martin Bletcher. It is now known that Mowat hotelier Shannon Fraser had several spats with Thomson about money owing the artist, and that because of his pending marriage to Winnifred Trainor, the necessity to pool money exacerbated the frayed relationship.
In the next blog in this series, we will examine the circumstances surrounding the mystery-clad exhumation of Thomson’s grave at Canoe Lake, as requested by his brother George, announced on July 18, and conducted by a Huntsville undertaker named Churchill, on July 19th. Churchill was delivered to the site by Shannon Fraser and was left on his own all that night to dig and raise the coffin without assistance. In the 1950’s this same grave was re-opened during an impromptu exhumation by William Little and companions, and the coffin was found exactly as it had been buried with skeleton inside. What had Mr. Churchill removed for reburial at Leith, Ontario (near Owen Sound)?
September is a beautiful month to visit Algonquin Park, the Visitor’s Centre, and of course Canoe Lake. Watch for the moose. Thanks for participating in this latest chapter of the ongoing Tom Thomson mystery.
Frederick Banting and Blodwen Davies researching death of Thomson
Note: As a sidebar to the story of Tom Thomson’s mysterious demise, I would like to include a passage from the biography, "The Side Door - Twenty-six Years in My Book Room," by well known Toronto bookseller, Dora Hood; 1958, The Ryerson Press. In her reminiscences of her many years catering the needs of readers, collectors, philosophers and historians, she notes of one particularly significant researcher and companion, in the following paragraph:
"Fame came, as everyone knows, to Sir Frederick Banting at a very early age. With the perfecting of the discovery of insulin by him in association with Dr. C.H. Best, he emerged from the sheltered life of the laboratory into the turmoil of publicity. When I met him this phase was so overwhelming to one of his nature, had passed an he, through his new friends, the artists of the Group of Seven, had discovered another talent. He revelled in his ability to paint the wild scenery of Northern Ontario and Quebec and this led him to begin his collection of books on exploration. I believe he was happier then than at any time in his short life. Among the friends who influenced his taste was Miss Blodwen Davies. At that time, about the early 1930's, she had won a reputation as a writer on the Canadian scene and was engaged in the task of collecting material for a life of Tom Thomson, the artist who had lately met a tragic end in the northern woods. Many years after Miss Davies told me Banting had helped her in establishing her theory of how Thomson met his death."
What is interesting about this, and the ongoing relationship Davies had with other prominent members of the Group of Seven, throughout her life, including with Thoreau Macdonald, son of J.E.H. Macdonald, was that the "murder" theory she dredged up had apparently upset the same artists she companioned with, including A.Y. Jackson, who never doubted Thomson’s death was accidental.....but the dismay must not have remained for long, as the friendship between historian and artists continued for the rest of her life. Thoreau illustrated some of her books following the release of her controversial biography on Thomson. Thoreau as a boy, had spent many hours with Thomson in his Toronto "shack" where the artist returned each winter to enlarge and improve upon what work he had completed during the spring, summer and autumn season in Algonquin. It was Thoreau and his father who were responsible for the memorial rock cairn to Thomson, situated on Canoe Lake’s Hayhurst Point, overlooking the former community of Mowat. They created the inscription that details the artist’s passion for the Canadian wilds.

Canada’s ninety year old cold case –
Was Tom Thomson a victim of foul play?
"A four-inch bruise or gash on the right side of the temple had been used to support theories that Tom Thomson had been struck with a canoe paddle by an unknown assailant. The fact that one of Thomson’s paddles was missing was put forward as further evidence of foul play. When the body was recovered on July 17, 1917, eight days after Thomson had been last seen, it was reported that fishing line had been tied many times around his left leg and that were was no water in his lungs. To make matters worse, there was also a controversy about Thomson’s true place of burial." page 192, "One Man’s Obsession," by Robert McMichael, (1986 Prentice-Hall, Canada), one of the legendary founders of the McMichael Canadian Collection (Art Gallery) at Kleinburg, Ontario. The co-founder was his wife Signe.
"Thomson was not yet forty years old and apparently in good health, an expert woodsman and canoeist, and a good swimmer. Inevitably, his death on the lake he knew so well gave rise to considerable suspicion and speculation. It had all the ingredients for a mystery which would eventually become part of the country’s folklore."
Robert McMichael notes on page 195 of his biography, in a small section on the life and death of Thomson, that on the night prior to the funeral for the artist, his coffin was "placed in the family parlor by an Owen Sound undertaker. In addition to Tom’s parents and four of his sisters and brothers, Elizabeth, Margaret, George and Fraser, a neighbour and close friend, John McKeen, was present. John Thomson, Tom’s father, asked that the coffin be opened. Although the undertaker was reluctant to do so because the body had been in the water for eight days, Mr. Thomson insisted. A solder seal was broken and the coffin was opened in the presence of Tom’s father and his friend John McKeen. Both men readily identified the body, and, although shaken, John Thomsom expressed relief that Tom’s body had come home. From the time the casket had been opened briefly, Margaret (Tom’s sister) recalled, an unmistakable musty odour pervaded the room."
According to McMichael, "Had William Little (author of " Tom Thomson Mystery") attempted to interview any of Thomson’s surviving sisters or brothers on the subject of the long ago interments, he would have undoubtedly have met the same stoical silence and distaste that Signe and I sensed whenever conversation threatened to approach the painful subject."
Late Autumn, Canoe Lake
At this very moment, it appears as if Tom Thomson’s own poignant brush strokes are creating this powerful clash of wind and current, the ominous bank of dark clouds rolling across the Algonquin landscape, here now in the early hours of this fledgling November. Whitecaps sweep up and along the rising swells, violently consumed again by the frothing, spinning cauldron, restoring itself in the succession of conflicting currents below. When the wind pounds its fury like a fist across this lakeland, it seems to the folklorist, as if Thomson has unleashed revenge for his death unresolved.
The eerie moan of wind etching harshly down over this haunted shore, is the glimpse of Canoe Lake few observe. There are no watchers here now, from this pinnacle above the lake, to witness the rapidly moving storm unclench on this inspirational place on earth. Yet, to this observer, as I expect it was to Thomson, the true measure of storm front, was as beautiful in character and manifestation, as the gentlest, brightest spring day when new life reached up to engage the morning sunlight. Thomson often exposed himself to the rage of an approaching storm, attempting to capture its essence on his paintboards.
As the waves erode vigorously over the rocks that line this point of land, I can also sense the raw, uncompromising beauty within rage, the spirit dwelling between heaven and earth, sending a chill to the very soul of the silent watcher in the woods. It’s as if I am standing here with Thomson, admiring starkness and fury, the violent twist of wind through the evergreens, yet strangely finding peace and tranquility amidst the tumultuous transition of autumn at the first icy grasp of winter.
There is ample evidence that Canadian artist Tom Thomson’s body still rests in the Canoe Lake Cemetery, where he was buried ninety years ago, July 1917. Although it has never been conclusively proven by forensic experts, Judge William Little, author of the landmark book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," made a rather unsettling discovery that placed the deceased artist where he simply..... and according to historic record, should not have been. Little and several mates dug up Thomson’s alleged Canoe Lake grave in 1956. Instead of finding an empty plot, as a Huntsville undertaker should have left the grave after an earlier family-ordered exhumation in 1917, they found a skeleton in a coffin that they adamantly believe belonged to the deceased artist. With a brief forensic examination in Toronto however, comparing photographs of the artist, the experts declared the skull did not belong to Tom Thomson. So if Thomson had been moved to a family plot, in the Village of Leith (near Owen Sound), did undertaker Churchill dump another body in the vacated coffin? Or did Churchill just send a few pounds of Algonquin dirt to Leith, suspecting the family would never open the soldered metal coffin to confirm the corpse’s identity. As Robert McMichael references however, from an opinion given to him in person from Thomson relatives, the coffin had been opened before burial at Leith....and Thomson was indeed within!
When Judge Little’s group exhumed the gravesite in the Mowat site, on Canoe Lake, the fact an occupant was found in a supposedly empty grave confirmed what the party had known for decades. There had been suspicion since July 1917 that the undertaker, working alone exhuming the grave, could not have raised the coffin himself that morning, and by measurement, the tiny amount of newly disturbed earth at the site was enough to raise suspicion Churchill had not fulfilled his obligation to the Thomson family. Yet Churchill had only shifted a few shovel-loads of dirt from the original burial mound. Not nearly the amount of disturbed soil that should have been visible to allow for the removal of an adult size coffin. In 1956, the Ontario Provincial Police and the Algonquin authority at the time, could have demanded a more substantial investigation, as Mr. Churchill was still alive, and could have been thoroughly interviewed regarding the perplexing matter of "one too many bodies." The Thomson family is said to have declined requests then to re-open the grave in Leith, to see if their kin had indeed been moved for that 1917 reburial. There have been many requests over the decades to exhume both plots but family has held to their belief Tom Thomson is resting at peace in Leith.
I have researched this cold-case for well over a decade now and I have held firm to the belief Thomson was a victim of foul play. As it has been revealed in the past few years, the death-bed confession from kin of hotelier Shannon Fraser, implicated not only Fraser but his wife who assisted in the disposal of the artist’s body. It was said in this confessional that an argument had developed sometime before the 8th of July, 1917, regarding money Fraser owed Thomson. It is known Thomson planned to wed later that summer and he requested money owed from the hotelier in preparation for the approaching nuptials. Thomson was pushed down and struck his head on some object either inside the hotel or outside. Thomson wasn’t dead as a result of the injury that apparently only knocked him unconscious.
Fraser went and got his wife, they hauled Thomson down to the dock when it appeared everyone around the hotel had gone to bed, and they prepared to row him, and his canoe out onto Canoe Lake. A guest at the hotel did hear a commotion late at night on the stairs and outside. Thomson’s leg was bound with copper trolling wire and a weight attached to keep the artist on the bottom of the lake forever. The canoe had been made to look as if prepared for travel, and food provisions set in to look as if the traverse to a fishing spot could have been extended overnight. The canoe was rigged according to the perpetrator’s standard, not Thomson’s, and this was duly noted when the canoe was found later, and the peculiarities examined, none of which were characteristic of how the artist prepared his canoe for travel. Thomson and the weight were rolled into the water and the canoe toppled to make it appear a misadventure had occurred.
Judge Little, to the end of his life, believed the smoking gun in this case, was the object Fraser had used to weigh the body down. Investigation into this occurred several years before William Little’s death, but exploratory dives to the bottom, in the vicinity of the lake where the body was recovered, failed to turn up this critical evidence. What Fraser had not counted on was that the current of the water, and rubbing of the copper line against rock as the body twisted and bobbed, would snap the wire quickly, allowing the body to re-surface as it did, almost as it would have naturally during the stages of decomposition. A number of dynamite explosions in the lake were conducted in an attempt to raise the body shortly after Thomson went missing in 1917, possibly adding to the stress on the copper line.
What has always made the Tom Thomson death so curious to me, is this collection of inconsistencies and failures of both the Canoe Lake community at the time, the police, the coroner and those closest to the artist who simply opted to accept the accidental drowning theory, versus pursuing the very real possibility one of Canada’s most promising artists had been murdered. There were those who suspected foul play when Thomson disappeared, and equally there were those who believed evidence pointed to murder after his body was found.
These were the same individuals who refused to address the coroner’s inquest with their suspicions, despite being afforded the opportunity. If even one person in that room, that night, in July 1917, had spoken of a fight Thomson had been engaged the night before with cottager Martin Bletcher Jr., history would surely have been re-inked. The coroner would have had no choice but to order the exhumation of Thomson’s body, which had been buried only hours before the inquest began.
When you consider that there was immediate suspicion that undertaker Churchill had lied about exhuming Thomson’s body, during that midnight dig in the lamplight, it should have been the last straw, influencing one of the silent majority to fess up to suspicion foul play had played a role in the artist’s demise. Yet you must also consider that one of those suspicious of Churchill’s actions was Shannon Fraser, who had other reasons for being concerned about the artist’s whereabouts.
While there was a large amount of hearsay and innuendo that year and for many years after, nothing could make the key players take issue with the inconsistencies. When Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies informed the police of her suspicions of foul play, in the 1930’s, based on this same hearsay, it was quickly dismissed as a matter best left alone. Although she did publish this suspicion in her later book on the artist, the most that came from her inquiry, was the latent inspiration which helped generate William Little’s eventual grave-digging foray, which itself led to an explosive and ongoing interest in re-opening the cold case. Yet, despite the evidence that certainly warranted further investigation, the art community generally and family wished to leave the matter alone, as it has remained ever since.
Despite what the art community considers an historical event and nothing more, wishing not to intrude upon the achievements and integrity of Thomson’s art with the speculations of dastardly deeds and foul play, it is sheer folly to believe for one moment, that the mystery and Thomson’s art, can ever truly be held separate by the biographer. This is especially true for historians who have come to accept that within this important cultural identity, these powerful images and Thomson’s forever haunted character, a mystery unclenches in powerful undertow beneath what appears a calm lake at sunset. Just as this November storm today reminds us of his brush work, with the intertwining of actuality and the unknown, this rugged, exciting scene, and the tumultuous effect of wind and rain, to makes just one clear impression upon the watcher. In this awe of art within nature, we dwell precariously at the mercy of our own fear and trembling. Yet there is joy being here to witness the storm, the soul, the legend.
Thank you so much for joining this lengthy series of columns detailing elements that compose the structure of the now legendary Tom Thomson Mystery. Take a trip to Algonquin this fall and winter, and experience some of Ontario’s most inspiring landscapes. The Algonquin Visitors Centre is open year round, offering a museum display, an art gallery exhibit, book shop, eatery and a magnificent view. Drive carefully, enjoy the view and watch out for the moose.

A Tribute Traverse of Canoe Lake - That Almost Took a Fatal Turn
Since I began researching the mystery of Tom Thomson’s death, in July 1917, we have made many trips up to Canoe Lake from our Gravenhurst home here in South Muskoka. With our two young lads Andrew and Robert, my wife Suzanne and I have enjoyed numerous canoe adventures from early spring to late autumn.....in the winter we often visited the Algonquin Centre. As admirers of Thomson’s Algonquin art especially, traversing Canoe Lake always seemed so amazingly interactive, as if we were studying his art panels from the inside out.
After spending months writing and researching a multi-part feature series being published in The Muskoka Sun, we decided to take one more paddle on Canoe Lake before the warm season ended. When we set out that morning in our old aluminum canoe we call the "Iron Waterhorse," the weather was warm and the water still......a perfect day for a picnic on Hayhurst Point, across from the former village of Mowat, where the Thomson memorial cairn was situated. We had never been to the site and thought it was now appropriate, particularly as the series of columns was reaching its conclusion, to make this pilgrimage to pay our own respects to a talented Canadian artist.
Suzanne paddled at the bow and I took the stern and the boys enjoyed the traverse across an early autumn Algonquin lake. From the Portage Store the paddle took us less than an hour with nary a wave to contend with the whole way. There were many canoes out that morning.....mostly rentals from the store. We landed at the dock and after unloading the picnic gear and the boys, we navigated the Waterhorse to where we could pull it ashore. It was a considerable rocky incline.
We climbed up the hillside and the boys had already landed at the base of the rock cairn which had been constructed shortly after Thomson’s death, to remind people of the artist’s great love for the park and the wilds of Canada. We found a comfortable place to sit and after a period of sightseeing and enjoying the spectacular view, Suzanne set out the picnic lunch. There wasn’t a whisper of wind at this point in the late morning. About mid-lunch Andrew went to the cairn and began tracing out the letters on the bronze plaque with his finger. He read aloud the tribute that had been written by fellow artist and friend J.E.H. Macdonald.......the inscription reads as follows:
"To the memory of Tom Thomson, artist-woodsman and guide who was drowned in Canoe Lake, July 8th, 1917. He lived humbly but passionately with the wild - it made him brother to all untamed things of Nature. It drew him apart and revealed itself wonderfully to him. It sent him out from the woods only to show these revelations through his art - and it took him to itself at last. His fellow artists and other friends and admirers join gladly in this tribute to his character and genius. His body is buried in Owen Sound, Ontario, where he was born August, 1877."
I remember joining him at the base of the cairn and saying something like..... "Be careful Andy, you might raise Thomson from the grave."
I don’t know how long it was from that statement to when I first noticed the wind breaking over the hillside. I know that items were blowing off the picnic blanket and I do recall having to chase my baseball cap across the small plateau. To say this windstorm had arisen from a clear blue sky is truthful. There wasn’t a cloud on the horizon. When we took a look down at the canoe, it was being pushed back and forth at the stern by a succession of white-capped waves now pounding the shoreline. We couldn’t believe the transition. Is it possible we conjured up a ghost in the form of a windstorm by paying our respects to Thomson? It was sudden and severe. When we looked out over the lake we could see dozens of over-turned canoes, paddlers in lifejackets bobbing on the waves. We were hard pressed to help them from our own position. Our canoe offered too much surface area above the water and it was hard to paddle even in a light wind.
We waited as long as we could at Hayhurst Point, and when a lull arrived after about forty minutes, we decided to cross over to the Mowat side and hug the shore up the lake. In the canoe about ten minutes, the raging conditions started up again, and it was everything we could do just to remain upright. We were getting pounded by the waves hitting the shore and then being violently twisted in the roll-back of waves going back out. We weren’t inexperienced paddlers but this was a challenge. We had a hell of a traverse right over the location Thomson is said to have perished, and yes there was a strange aura over Canoe Lake that day. There were countless rescues all over the lake, of folks dumped from their canoes by the unanticipated rough weather. We survived. But after all these years there’s still that shred of wonder......was it a little paranormal intervention, just to let us know he’s still very much a spirit dwelling within Algonquin.
Take a trip up to Algonquin Park this season and see first hand what inspired Tom Thomson. Watch for the moose. Have a safe journey.

Tom Thomson’s Algonquin was the depiction of the Canadian North
By Ted Currie
March. A tired old winter holding-on. Yet there is the smell of open earth coming from the hillsides where the sun has been strong and kind. There is the potential a mid-winter snowstorm might soon spiral away the bright cheer of this now sunny lake vista, as Algonquin storms are legendary for their suddenness and intensity. The warm bathing sunglow this morning, in a matter of moments, could be swept into obscurity by wind-driven snow and the darkness of tumbling cloud cover. There is an ominous cloud-bank currently rising behind the horizon evergreens. For the moment, I bask here in this spring-inspired morning sun, and think about the artist who painted transitional vistas such as this, and became as much a legend as the Algonquin landscape he documented.
"Thomson’s sketches had developed with breath-taking rapidity for four years. The climax came in 1917 when he began in early spring to paint a daily record of nature’s changing moods and aspects, even to the flowers. By July, he reported his project as virtually completed. The Frasers at Mowat Lodge saw him leaving in his canoe at noon on July 8 for an afternoon of fishing at Tea Lake Dam. The overturned canoe was found later that day, and his body was recovered on July 16. There were many rumors of foul play and much speculation about how the best-known canoeman of the north could have drowned by accident."
The passage above appears on page 275 of the revered Canadian art history by J. Russell Harper, entitled "Painting in Canada – A History."
In 1925, less than a decade after Thomson’s death, art historian, Newton MacTavish, in the book "The Arts in Canada," wrote the following passage about the artist’s impact on a nation, and on the international art community itself:
"Then came suddenly, in 1917, the news that Tom Thomson had been drowned in Algonquin Park. The occurrence meant, as far as art in Canada is concerned, more than might be suspected, because Thomson, although he lived in winter, in Toronto, almost as a recluse, and in summer as a bush ranger, had a considerable following. For he had attacked the north country with a big and exclusive design. And although he did not teach art, his work was an inspiration to others; and if ever it can be shown that there is in Canada a school of art, the beginnings of that school might be traced back to Tom Thomson."
"I could sit down and cry to think that while in all this turmoil over here there is a ray of light, and that the peace and quietness of the north country should be the scene of such a tragedy," wrote Thomson’s colleague A.Y. Jackson, in a letter to associate painter J.E.H. MacDonald, shortly after he had received word of the drowning. Jackson, at the time, was in England awaiting transport to the battlefront in France, to paint the war record of Canadian soldiers in action, during the concluding years of the First World War. "It seems like the reversing of another tie which bound us to Canada, because without Tom the north country seems a desolation of bush and rock. He was the guide, the interpreter, and we the guests partaking of his hospitality so generously given," wrote Jackson in a letter dated August 4th, 1917." (Letter contained in "Painting in Canada – A History" by J.R. Harper)
Although the winter of 2009 had an early but gentle beginning, the late-winter rage has once again defined in sculpture, the dynamic of a Canadian winter. Standing on the shore of Algonquin’s Canoe Lake, you must not dismiss the remaining weeks of winter potential. It is a most beautiful frozen snowscape, sculpted with the heavy snow and windstorms of February. It was a scene Thomson would have approved, and sought out the right vantage point to more poignantly capture the effects of light and shadow, upon rock, windswept evergreens and late winter sky. It is a curious portal from which to view the natural world. It instills upon the watcher in the woods, a comforting solitude yet offers an immense invigoration of the senses. It was a place of great inspiration to Tom Thomson. Ninety two years ago this rapidly rising figure in Canadian art, was about to make his most intense study of the Algonquin re-awakening which would see the creation of many of his finest paint boards, depicting the colorations of this season of dynamic, vivid re-generation. It would end several months later with his alleged drowning, sometime between the evening of July 7th and mid afternoon July 8th, during a undetermined misadventure on this same lake.
Tom Thomson’s reputation as a representative Canadian artist was emerging slowly by 1917 but there are few critics who would disagree, his ongoing success was virtually guaranteed if he had continued painting past that summer. The fact he died on this brink of fame, and did so tragically and arguably with an added measure of inescapable mystery, has become so intertwined over the years, it is impossible to separate the two aspects of insightful art and sudden demise. If Thomson had died of natural causes, much less attention would have been foisted upon his departure from this mortal coil, and all the focus would have been on his life and art. Like finding a jury member uncontaminated by freely expressed opinion or bias of a particular event, finding an art admirer anywhere who isn’t abundantly aware of Thomson’s sudden and mysterious death, is a rarity today just as it was in the years following the Canoe Lake occurrence.
There are steadfast art historians who wish to remove the circumstances of his death well away from the interpretation of his art panels. Yet a few hale and hearty avengers, in the study of Thomson’s death, feel it is now an inherent, important patina of his work; not to take away from his artistic capability but as a legend within that begs us to take a second look,...... at not only his art but the mortal who so capably captured Algonquin’s natural, supernatural essence. I could stand on this frozen shore all day, feeling the company of Thomson’s spirit. I can easily imagine what it must have been like in that spring of 1917, when the artist first arrived to see that year’s spring emergence from the frozen, barren landscape. He found great beauty in this transition and re-generation of the lakeland.
There are those critics now, just as there were in 1917, and in all the years following his alleged accidental death, who flatly refuse to have anything to do with the so-called "Tom Thomson Mystery," so poignantly and intelligently presented by Judge William Little, in his well known book of the same name. It was the research-based text which formally introduced the full scope of the murder scenario to the Canadian public. His work inspired a landmark CBC film documentary which left little doubt, murder theorists had a great deal of corroborating evidence. In fact, it has been the deniers themselves, who have raised suspicion moreso than the foul play proponents, by their outright refusal to discuss the possibilities,...... on the grounds that it has no business in the discussion or consideration, now or in the future, of Thomson’s body of work. They believe, just as his associate artists agreed in 1917, that the memory of Thomson was not best served dredging up all kinds of nasty allegations warranting unwanted editorial coverage. As this was a profound and purposeful effort to disassociate Thomson from anything criminal, it smacked of a cover-up from the beginning, as uncovered fully by William Little in the late 1960’s. It wouldn’t be the first time that an intentional covering-over of an event, or crime, doubled or tripled the attention of the curious. Dogged investigators couldn’t help but wonder why clear evidence, on the case, was not provided during that summer’s Coroner’s Inquest, held at Canoe Lake.
Many of the participants in the room at that time, suspected Thomson had been murdered but declined to raise their suspicion to the Coroner when given the opportunity. From the day Thomson’s overturned canoe was found in Canoe Lake, the mystery commenced. It wasn’t solely inspired by biographer Blodwen Davies, in the late 1920’s, who was the first to suggest to the public, foul play was the most likely cause of Thomson’s death. It didn’t arrive at the time an impromptu exhumation of Thomson’s first grave, at the Canoe Lake Cemetery, turned up a coffin and skeleton that wasn’t supposed to be there, and it certainly wasn’t created just by the release of the Tom Thomson Mystery. The mystery, and the patina ingrained in the work of Tom Thomson, began moments after his body was found and the rumor mill commenced its momentum of speculation......which has perpetuated through the decades.
In fact there is ample evidence discussion about murder, was taking place before Thomson’s initial burial, prior to the Coroner’s inquest, and those stories carried on from that point, spun and embellished as they become generation to generation. Even if a writer had not touched the story in those early years, it would have emerged into the public domain sooner or later. Too many people had suspicions and were willing to talk about it, or Davies would have had no reason to involve the police in the case in the late 1920’s, during her work on Thomson’s biography. She found numerous individuals in the Canoe Lake community, willing to talk about the possibility a crime had unfolded in the circumstances surrounding Thomson’s death.
One might reasonably conclude there was unresolved guilt, held by many friends of Thomson, who had failed to defend the artist’s honor when afforded the opportunity. They attended the inquest and held their peace so to speak, instead of confessing their suspicions. I’ve heard handed down stories even this past year, from a resident on Canoe Lake, offering unfaltering opinion Thomson was indeed murdered, and the killer was Mowat hotelier, Shannon Fraser. Whether it was Fraser or not, who had a hand in Thomson’s demise, this will be the mission of discovery for a future column. Were they scared of the consequences of fessing-up? Was their bond with the alleged killer stronger than their friendship to Thomson? We’ll examine these questions in future blogs.
It’s getting colder here now and the wind is slicing painfully through my jacket. It has been an invigorating visit to the shore of Canoe Lake, one of my favorite places on earth. Take the time this summer season to visit Ontario’s Algonquin Park, and the legendary Canoe Lake.
Who murdered Tom Thomson?
Ninety two years since artist’s tragic death on Algonquin’s Canoe Lake
It’s only the first of April but there are clear signs here at Canoe Lake, that the Algonquin landscape is ready to burst with spring rejuvenation. The sunglow off the remaining snow-crust is blinding. The sound of tiny cataracts of run-off water is a pleasant harbinger of spring, as are the bird calls and the sign of fresh animal tracks in the decaying mantle of winter snow. I wonder if Tom Thomson might have found this re-emergence of the lakeland worthy of study? A sketch possibly.
In the spring of 1917 he arrived at Canoe Lake, to watch the spring season unfold across the Algonquin Lakes. He found it an interesting season, the summer being too green and lush to give him the color contrasts he found with a barren forest, and a rugged, craggy lakeshore. The spring sky. The powerful storms that etched across this Canadian landscape. He had eager expectations for the spray of vivid colors, associated with the first wildflowers to arrive in the warming soils of the open areas, on the fringe of the forest and bordering the grassy lowlands.
Ninety-two years ago Tom Thomson would have touched this spring released water, and witnessed this heavenly sky backdropping the rich hue of evergreen, the grey of rock against the rising pulse of dark current, tumbling deeply within this legendary lake. I can’t help but to crouch now, out of respect, to touch this water along the beach, just as Thomson would have, when launching his canoe nine decades ago this year.
The purpose of this blog series is to address what I believe has been an injustice to the memory of a great Canadian artist. When I began my inaugural investigation into his death, I attempted to research my way past the accepted conclusion.......to discover something, anything, a trivial detail overlooked by countless others that would help disprove the theory Thomson had drowned accidentally. Most of the reference books about Thomson have been steadfast regarding the circumstances surrounding his death. Accidental. I have felt it was somewhat insulting to assume that Thomson, on an otherwise clear, still day, could have drowned by misadventure, within calling distance of shore. To suggest, as some have written, Thomson was drunk when he left shore, doesn’t fit his profile that summer. As for him having a pee mid-lake, and subsequently toppling out of the canoe, this is on the very edge of ridiculous. There were cottages and folks all over that shoreline, certainly at the time he was alleged to have traversed the lake, so relieving himself wasn’t within character for such a chap known widely as a gentleman.
Bandied about even up to the mid 1990's, is this unfounded, grasping-at-straws assessment, Thomson had toppled out of his canoe while urinating clumsily mid-lake,....... hitting his head on the gunnel of the vessel on the way down into the lake. It is also alleged he was more than a little tipsy before relieving himself, due to the flask of alcoholic beverage he consumed earlier. Most authors stick to the results of the coroner’s report of 1917, which is, in my opinion, a breach of investigative protocol because any one who has studied the events surrounding, and during the inquest, realize justice was not entirely served. So those Thomson biographers who side with accepted opinion, decided to conclude that death was indeed due to drowning, foolishly agreeing with an incomplete inquest.
Blind acceptance of the inquest’s ruling by Thomson researchers to this point, is evidence these authors have dismissed his death as being of little overall importance to the study of his contribution to Canadian art. A few intrepid Thomson admirers have thought enough of the artist to commit to a full and complete investigation; just as Judge William Little detailed in his book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," and Blodwen Davies before him, in a biography she was writing on Thomson (during the late 1920’s, published in early 1930). Both believed the inquest was shallow and information about the days leading up to his death, and conflicts with area residents, was negligently withheld during the official hearing. The coroner did not have all the information required, to without doubt, attribute Thomson’s death to drowning.
Here’s what’s wrong with acceptance of fact as presented. Canadian art history has been influenced by the mystery from the moment Thomson’s body was found in July 1917, and word initially spread around the Canoe Lake community about the loss of their so-called friend. Even then his mates and even a few enemies pondered the cause of death, and no one (except the Coroner later) believed Thomson drowned. They knew him to be, at the very least, a competent canoeist, who could handle adverse conditions and even an occasional topple-over into the lake. During the day he was supposed to have disappeared, it’s unlikely he would have been under the influence of alcohol, and because it doesn’t take long to get from shore to shore, Thomson had very little reason to relieve himself awkwardly balanced in mid lake, where his body was eventually found.
When the coroner that July did come to the hamlet of Mowat, on Canoe Lake, to conduct the specially called inquest, the examiner discovered Thomson had been buried earlier that same day in the local hillside cemetery. No body! Just the observations made by a doctor, not a pathologist, who originally spotted the floating body, and who later conducted an impromptu lakeshore examination. The body was never taken to dryland for proper examination and in fact, he was prepared for burial, including embalming, right on the island shore where his body had been hauled-upon the day before. So for every author-historian-biographer who has decided to adopt the accidental death theory, and include it for the ongoing distortion of historical record, this is the reason a wrong must be corrected. Thomson did not die as a result of drowning.
Thomson while an emerging talent on the Canadian art scene, by the summer of 1917, was also embroiled in a few personal conflicts, which some well known authors believed could have inspired thoughts of suicide, although this has received thin investigation over the decades. It has also been revealed by an historian in Washington State that Thomson, during his stay there with a brother working in the commercial art discipline, may have generated a child with a prominent Seattle family, and then been forced to make a hasty retreat back to Canada. It has long been alleged that he had another child on the way with a local Huntsville woman, and there is evidence he was preparing to enter into marriage to make the situation right. It is said he reserved an Algonquin cabin as a honeymoon retreat for later that summer season of 1917. It is also known Thomson was in some financial peril despite the fact some of his work was selling and he was living frugally in Mowat. There are a few biographer "busy-bodies" who believe Thomson was owed money and that tension was building over several weeks that spring season, as he made demands for re-payment.
There are literally hundreds of details concerning Thomson’s final days and demise that require forensic scrutiny. After reading every book, article and document I can find about Thomson, and his painting during the spring and early summer of 1917, one can ascertain that he was both content and prolific at his art work, producing many paintboards, and feeling satisfied he had captured the spring re-awakening in Algonquin.
What is also well established is that he could be argumentative and drinking possibly too much for his own good. The evening before he is said to have drowned, he had a serious dispute with an American cottager, Martin Bletcher Jr., which ended with a modest amount of pushing but no actual fisticuffs. Bletcher was considered a suspect in Thomson’s death shortly after the body was recovered. First of all, those who were in company with the artist and Bletcher the night of the argument, remembered the cottager telling Thomson to stay out of his way, if he knew what was good for him. Secondly, it was Bletcher who first spotted Thomson’s over-turned canoe but did not report it immediately to Algonquin authorities. He claimed that it was not uncommon to find overturned canoes in the lake, many having accidentally drifted away from encampments. It was pointed out to Bletcher, by some of his neighbors that only Thomson’s boat had that particular hue of (oil paint) green attached, noting that no one could have mistaken the overturned canoe for anyone else’s property.
It was also rumored about difficulties manifesting between Mowat hotelier Shannon Fraser and Thomson, who resided frequently at the hotel, regarding money owed. I’ve heard both sides, one that Thomson owed Fraser money for lodging and supplies and had refused to make restitution. Other sources have explained it was actually Fraser who owed Thomson, and that because the artist needed the money to proceed with the wedding that fall, the requests for payment became more rigorous. Today it is pretty much accepted thought amongst those who disbelieve the drowning scenario, (despite the accidental death theory mainstream authors continue to publish as fact) that it was Fraser who killed Thomson. Not on purpose, but the end result of a brief, violent skirmish, when Thomson fell in the midst of physical conflict, and struck his head on a stone hearth. As "dead-men-tell-no-tales," Fraser decided to dispose of the body and make it appear as if the artist’s disappearance was the result of poor canoemanship.
A death-bed statement by kin of the Frasers, of Mowat, claimed that Shannon and his wife, in the wee hours of the summer night, dragged the artist’s unconscious body out on the dock and rolled him into the canoe. They then tied their rowboat to the canoe and propelled themselves through the darkness toward a mid-lake target-site to purposely overturn the canoe. What is revealed by William Little’s book is how inept the Frasers were in replicating the canoeing habits Thomson employed, including how one paddle was awkwardly lashed to the thwart and a second paddle that was never found despite an extensive search.
Within only moments of seeing the evidence and visible tampering, and then the condition of the artist’s body, the guides who attended Thomson did not believe it was in any way accidental drowning. Consider the fact that the impromptu autopsy on the island shore, determined that Thomson was still bleeding when he went into the water, not being quite dead when unceremoniously abandoned to the bottom of Canoe Lake.
The mission of this multi-year research project regarding the death of Tom Thomson, is not to sensationalize his death. It is however, to refute completely the idea the artist was the victim of accidental death. In this the 92nd anniversary year of his demise, it is a fitting time to set the record as straight as it can be, without going the complete distance and having his body exhumed for forensic investigation; which would be a much more precise examination today with DNA profiling. Keep in mind there are two graves, one in Algonquin and one in Leith, Ontario, said to possess the artist’s remains. One body, two graves. This is going to be an exciting series of feature blogs. Don’t miss a single one.
In the meantime, make a point of visiting Algonquin Park this summer season, especially this beautiful area of Canoe Lake. There’s lot to do up here, particularly the museum display at the Algonquin Visitor’s Centre. Drive safely and watch for the moose!
92nd Anniversary of Tom Thomson’s death
The spring of 1917 gave Thomson the perfect Algonquin study
I so clearly recall the restorative, invigorating freshness, the post-ice chill of water that day, as I experienced my first touch of the legendary Algonquin Lake. I had spent all that winter season reading about Canadian artist Tom Thomson, and his outright joy living and working in this beautiful and enchanted place. Kneeling down to let the water run through my fingers connected me at last, to one of Canadian history’s most enduring mysteries. How did Tom Thomson meet his end? Was it an accident? Or was it Murder?
My first adventure to Canoe Lake was the beginning of an enduring relationship for our entire family. From the first touch of the lake which we all participated somewhat ceremoniously, on that particular spring day, we have camped, paddled, hiked and motor-toured through the park each season of the year. We would be hard pressed to tell you which season is most impressive, each being magnificent with its own natural adornments. You won’t find a landscape more spectacular than looking out over an Algonquin lowland after newly fallen snow. Just as compelling is the fabulously colored autumn landscape, and then the lush greens and heavenly blue skies of a hot July.
For Thomson, the spring regeneration was an important season to study. He wasn’t particularly fond of a green landscape prevalent in the summer months, so the spring season offered the visual contrast of a stark topography left by recoiling winter, yet the daily rejuvenation of plant life and hardwood foliage across the lakeland. It was in the spring of 1917 that Thomson made an impressive, profoundly ambitious attempt to capture the re-awakening Algonquin woodland. He put together a much more rigorous painting regimen than was his hallmark as a painter, in Algonquin, during the years previous. At the time of his death it is said by some biographers and critics that he had just about wrapped up a complete study of the spring season and was painting less and fishing more. It was as if he appreciated his mission had been successful. A few writers with paranormal overtones believe Thomson was tidying up his painted biography on the brink of his own anticipated demise. There has long been the suggestion Thomson may have taken his own life, although I’m not one who believes this assessment.
Thomson was particularly concerned about the accuracy of his depictions. He demanded the colors be realistic. It is said that when someone would remark of a finished paint board, the colors of a flower, for example, reminded them of a patch of wildflowers they’d seen on a walk, he would appear delighted to hear he had captured the correct hue. When someone would say that his painting of the Northern Lights made one feel cold and alone, he was equally enthralled, as it was very much his intent with the painting, to inspire a spiritual awe in the presence of something so awesome. When a park ranger approached Tom Thomson, while painting a scene from an island on Smoke Lake, and commented that the art panel clearly reminded him of all the natural attributes witnessed while traversing that part of the waterway, the artist invited the gent to partake of a freshly baked blueberry pie; made by Thomson in a crudely fashioned reflector oven.
Thomson had his critics who didn’t care that he was an artist and who wouldn’t have taken a panel if afforded one as a gift. Some acknowledged him when an impromptu meeting took place in Mowat, on Canoe Lake, or on one of the many portages in the vicinity. He wasn’t a friend to all. Thomson was opinionated, some said he was arrogant and argumentative, and a few others make mention that he drank too much and wasn’t beyond becoming physical if that was demanded to defend someone’s honor. Most who knew him felt that he was pretty average. He was generous to those he respected and was well known for handing over studies to those who remarked about liking the art panels. He gave away many paintings, some to people who he believed could benefit sometime in the future, by selling the subject painting.
When Thomson got into a heated argument with Martin Bletcher Jr., on the night before he went missing, it wasn’t an event that stirred much interest amongst the cronies at Mowat. In fact it didn’t even get one moment of scrutiny at the inquest into Thomson’s death, even when the Coroner asked whether any one (of many in the room) had information relevant to the artist’s mysterious demise. Afterall it was noted on initial inspection of the body by Dr. Howland, that Thomson was still alive after disappearing down into the black lake, as he continued to bleed from his ear. Corpses don’t bleed as such.
So seeing Tom Thomson in an argument of one kind or another, as others participated as well, didn’t spark any particular sentiment that this was an isolated or unusual event.
It is reported that Bletcher, a German-American, who cottaged with his family on Canoe Lake, had a disagreement with Thomson regarding events and involvements of the nations embroiled in the ongoing battles of World War. Thomson was said to be sensitive about the war effort, and about his inability to join the ranks of Canadian volunteers because of problems with his feet. Many of his artist colleagues had gone overseas to paint the events on the battlefields, and it was felt by some biographers that Thomson felt guilty at not having a role to play abroad. The context of the argument is largely speculation although at the conclusion Bletcher did warn Thomson to stay out of his way in the future, if he knew what was good for him.
There are others who knew there had been an ongoing conflict over money, going on between Mowat hotelier Shannon Fraser and Thomson, and that it was also at a precarious level prior to the artist’s disappearance. The coroner heard nothing of either conflict at the inquest, even thought there was ample opportunity to raise the matter. It is known that there was grumbling and hearsay before the inquest, even in whispers while it was in session, and again after it was over, something that was picked up by Thomson biographer Blodwen Davies more than a decade after the death. She was so certain that the police would want to know about this now seasoned rumor of foul play, that she helped open up a cold case file. It was quickly dismissed and the file shoved back into the obscurity from which it was "dredged-up," a reference made by some members of the Group of Seven artists upset by Davies’ murder allegations regarding their colleague, Thomson.
In the coming blogs in this series, I will present some of the key facts of the Thomson mystery you are currently not aware, so that you can decide for yourself if justice was served in 1917, when the Coroner, without a body to examine, declared his death was the result of accidental drowning, a shortfall of criminal inquiry that has haunted this case for the past 92 years. And we’ll try to determine Thomson’s final resting place. Currently he is said to reside in two graves. The Thomson family believes he rests in a small cemetery in Leith, Ontario (near Owen Sound), and others believe he was never exhumed and moved in July 1917 (by order of Tom’s brother George after the initial burial), and still rests in vicinity of the old village of Mowat, Canoe Lake. We know for fact there is a skeleton buried in Thomson’s original casket at Canoe Lake, as it was uncovered in the 1950’s by a group of men including Judge William Little, author of "The Tom Thomson Mystery."
Take a motor trip up to Algonquin Park this spring, and put your feet into the sparkling waters of Canoe Lake. There are great places to dine, to hike, swim, canoe and observe. Don’t miss the opportunity to visit the Algonquin Visitor Centre Museum and Gallery, on the way to the East Gate. It’s great for the kids, and there is an impressive Tom Thomson exhibit.
Drive safe, watch for crossing deer and moose, and enjoy the wonderful view!
92nd Anniversary of Tom Thomson’s death -
Was it a case of murder or accidental drowning?
If you haven’t experienced a sparkling June day in Ontario’s Algonquin Park, you’re missing one of life’s truly amazing adventures. Here now on the shore of Canoe Lake, the water laps soothingly up over the sand in a gentle rhythmic wash. There are canoeists preparing for day-trips from the Portage Store dock, and voyageurs checking into the park office to register camping trips into the interior. Those having breakfast in the café above the lake, have a fantastic view of the bay and the expanse of this historic Algonquin waterway. I’m here now because of my interest in the Tom Thomson mystery. My wife calls it my obsession. My boys Andrew and Robert don’t really care why they’re in Algonquin, just that we are afforded two canoes and provisions for a day on the water.
It has long been considered fact that legendary Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, drowned in Canoe Lake on July 8th, 1917. It is also recorded that Canoe Lake Hotelier Shannon Fraser saw Thomson alive, "and even checked his watch – 12:50 p.m. – as Thomson set off in his canoe from the Mowat Lodge dock," notes author Roy MacGregor, on page 287 in the softcover reprint, (re-named) edition of "Canoe Lake," formerly known as "Shorelines," an historical novel that came the closest, at the time, to the personal details surrounding Thomson and his love interests that fateful year.
"The presumption has always been that Fraser was the last person to see Thomson alive, and, in fact, the death of Tom Thomson has always been recorded as July 8, 1917. What, however, if Thomson had returned from his afternoon fish and the fight happened on the eighth," asks MacGregor, in the final pages of his book, which updates research into the circumstances surrounding the artist’s mysterious demise. "All Daphne Crombie (a guest at Mowat Lodge) knew was that Tom had gone missing, and since Fraser and (Mark) Robinson (Algonquin Park Ranger) claim they’d last seen him around noon on the eighth, she would have assumed that the fight Annie referred to had occurred the previous evening. Thomson’s canoe, however, was not reported missing until the ninth, and not found until the following day, July 10th. While Robinson’s sighting of Thomson has been used to disprove Crombie’s contention of a fight the night before Thomson went missing, it is entirely possible that both were right if, in fact, Shannon Fraser was lying about the last time Thomson was last seen alive at Mowat Lodge. He may indeed have checked his watch at 12:50 p.m. on July 8, as Thomson paddled away. He may also have had his argument with Thomson later that same day, following Thomson’s return to the Lodge." (2002, "Canoe Lake," Roy MacGregor, McClelland & Stewart, page 287)
Roy MacGregor’s novel, "Shorelines," originally published in 1980, was one of the first books I was told to read, by a book shop owner also interested in the Tom Thomson Mystery. He suggested that MacGregor’s fictional account was particularly close to what had actually happened in both his native Huntsville, in and around 1917, and the circumstances enveloping Thomson in the Algonquin community of Mowat. By MacGregor’s own admission, revealing his own family connection to the Thomson story had a number of personal consequences. "When this book was first published in the spring of 1980, there were still people alive who had known Tom Thomson and had been at Canoe Lake that fateful summer of 1917. I personally know nothing of what happened. I only know, for sure, that this book so upset certain members of my family that it cost our relationship. I understand their response. These are disconcerting speculations, but they can not be ignored if sense is ever to be made of what happened that warm July at Canoe Lake." (Canoe Lake, pg. 289)
If you are interested in knowing more about the final days of Tom Thomson, and wish to be introduced to the characters that played important roles in his life at the time, Roy MacGregor’s book is a necessary beginning. It has long been considered, even by some oldtimers in this region of Ontario, to be a fair account of what actually took place in that last year of Thomson’s life. This book is still available at new book shops, and you can find a copy of the 1980 novel "Shorelines," on either the Advance Book Exchange or in the Out of Print section of online Barnes & Noble.
"Exactly how Tom met his death probably no one will ever know. The following is the account given me (William Little – author of The Tom Thomson Mystery), by Mrs. J.S. Fraser, 1953, with whom Tom was living at Canoe Lake when the tragedy occurred. Tom was staying at Mowat Lodge. On Sunday, July 7, 1917, he made preparations to go to Tea Lake dam to fish, and he left with his lunch at about 1:00 p.m. Mr. Fraser last saw him as he was letting out his copper fishing line while paddling through the narrows to the right of the twin islands. About 3:00 p.m. when Martin Bletcher and his sister Bessie went down the lake in their little put-put motor boat, they saw Tom’s empty canoe drifting near the far end of the second twin island (belonging to Dr. Bertram and Mr. Pirie). They did not stop but on their way back they towed Tom’s canoe to Mowat Lodge and put it in their boat house. Nevertheless, they did not mention the fact, probably thinking it belonged to the hotel on Joe Lake. (Thomson’s canoe was of such a color, nobody who lived on the lake could have confused ownership) Tuesday morning Charlie Scrim discovered Tom’s canoe in Mr. Bletcher’s boat house, and then the hunt for Tom began. (Mrs. Fraser’s account has inconsistencies). The canoe contained Tom’s lunch, some supplies, and cooking utensils, which Tom always carried, while the paddles were placed as if for portaging but this could have been done by Martin Bletcher to hold them in place. The copper trolling line was missing." (Page 220, The Tom Thomson Mystery," William Little, 1970 McGraw-Hill). A question that was never put bluntly to Bletcher was whether or not he knew it was Thomson’s canoe, by its peculiar color (Thomson is alleged to have used his oil paint to color the hull...green). According to Thomson’s close friends there was no way anyone on Canoe Lake could have mistaken the artist’s boat, including Bletcher. Finding Thomson’s canoe adrift should have caused Bletcher, and his sister (also in the boat) to report the event right away, sensing a potential serious misadventure.
One of the most important books regarding Thomson’s demise is the sleuthing expertise of William Little, who takes what Fraser stated above, and the observations of many other witnesses, known facts and events surrounding the mysterious death, and presents a compelling argument that the artist was not the victim of accidental drowning but indeed had been murdered by someone in that Canoe Lake community, whether it was Martin Bletcher Jr., as suspected for many years, or Shannon Fraser, the Mowat Lodge proprietor. This book is also available through online out-of-print book sellers, such as "ABE" and others, should you be interested in reading more about Little’s sleuthing.
"Thomson got his canoe ready for the trip (Sunday, July 8th, between noon and 1 p.m.), and stowed away food and utensils for a meal or two. He had no bread at the cabin so he drew up at Mowat Lodge dock, while Fraser went up to the store for a loaf. Thomson tucked it away under the bow. The morning had turned grey. There was a light east wind blowing, with a drizzle of rain. Thomson bid the crowd that had gathered on the dock a gay farewell and in a very engaging mood set out on his mission," wrote noted Canadian biographer Blodwen Davies, in her 1930’s privately published text simply titled "Tom Thomson."
"Mowat Lodge stood on the shoreside of Canoe Lake. A short distance down the lake and separated from the mainland by only a narrow channel is Little Wapomeo Island, the property of Taylor Statten, who had a cottage on it. At the time the cottage was empty. The channel between the island and the mainland was choked with drowned timber, so Thomson paddled around to the east of Little Wapomeo and its sister island, Big Wapomeo, apparently with the intention of hugging the main shore until he came to the portaging place by which he would cross over into one of the little lakes where big trout were to be found," writes Davies. "When Thomson did not return that night, there was no alarm on the part of any of his friends. If they discussed it at all, they must have concluded that the fish were not biting and that he was challenged to continue. He had food and a ground-sheet."
"The Coulsons of Algonquin Hotel, at Joe Lake, had reported a canoe missing from the foot of the portage at Joe Lake Dam. On Monday morning, (July 9) Martin Bletcher Jr., one of the campers who lived near Mowat Lodge, reported that on Sunday afternoon (July 8) he had seen an upturned canoe drifting between Little Wapomeo and Big Wapomeo, which might be the lost Coulson Canoe. Charlie Scrim, of Ottawa, another camper, and a friend of Thomson, paddled down to have a look at it. There was consternation when he returned and reported that the canoe was Thomson’s. Thomson’s friends were puzzled. That some mishap had befallen him was evident, but the idea of drowning they did not entertain at all. He was too expert a swimmer to come to grief there. The only possible explanation was that he had landed somewhere, gone inland and had an accident – broken leg, perhaps, and his canoe had in the meantime drifted free. A search was organized to cover the adjacent woods and the news was sent out that Thomson was missing." (pg. 95-96 "Tom Thomson", Blodwen Davies).
"The cottage on Little Wapomeo had been rented and just after Thomson’s disappearance, Dr. Goldwin Howland took his family there from Toronto for the holidays. The weather continued to be wet and grey and the newcomers had to keep to the island. The morning of Monday, July 16th, was a little brighter and Dr. Howland took his small daughter out trolling on the lake. It was about nine o’clock when the child felt something heavy on the end of her line," reported Davies. Dr. Howland’s daughter had snagged the body of Tom Thomson. Davies asked the question, "Did Thomson’s body take eight days to rise in a shallow lake in the middle of July?"
It is suspected, by the length of copper line wrapped around Thomson’s ankle, that his body had been connected to some heavy object, to keep it from surfacing naturally, which would have taken less time in, as Davies describes, a shallow lake in a warm summer month. It is likely the copper wire rubbed against another object on the bottom of the lake, and the current’s twisting of the body caused the line to break free of the weight. This detail was one of the contentious issues that led Davies to contact the police, during her research, to suggest they should re-open the case that had been improperly labeled "death by accidental drowning." While it was given minor scrutiny, it was quickly dismissed by police.
"The mystery surrounding Thomson’s death will never be cleared up. Was he drowned in the quiet waters of a small lake? A man who had paddled all over the Park, generally alone, in all kinds of weather, run rapids, and carried his canoe over rough portages and made his camp in the bush in wolf-ridden country? There were theories – suicide, heart attack, foul play, but the verdict was "accidental drowning" – not very convincing; but with no evidence of anything to the contrary, it stands and must be accepted," wrote A.Y. Jackson (member of the Canadian Group of Seven artists) as an inclusion in the text of Davies’ 1967 reprinted text, published by the Mitchell Press of Vancouver. It is possible to find a copy of this book online as well.
In the next blog submission, I would like to present you with a contrary collection of facts and assessments to disprove Jackson’s assertion that there is no evidence to support theories other than accidental drowning. Quite a few writer-researchers have refused to surrender to Jackson’s suggestion, "it stands and must be accepted." Judge William Little for one, believed there was nothing accidental involved in Thomson’s demise. It was a clear cut case of murder and its cover-up. Join me for a stunning look at one of Canada’s best known legends. Will it ever be solved? I believe so!
Take a trip up to Algonquin Park this summer, and visit some of the locations that Tom Thomson captured on his paint boards, particularly in the area of beautiful Canoe Lake. Don’t forget to visit the Algonquin Visitor Centre where there is an impressive Thomson display, amongst many other historical and nature displays to enjoy.
Drive safely and enjoy the amazing view. Watch for the moose!