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.