Colette Obrien

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Messing About in Boats

A graceful white apparition appeared on the horizon, smoke rising from its single red stack to dust the sky. The ancient steamboat would be carting families home with their stores of leftover provisions from the summer: boxes of cookies, cured hams, canned goods, chocolate bars and trail mix, waterwings and dolls. Earlier in the century the steamboat would also have transported the family cow. As vacationers returned home for school and preparations for winter, the days grew quieter. There were fewer boats on the lake.
Early morning on the lake the water was flat, a perfect mirror for the brilliant blue sky and the trees fall colors that flashed across the surface like dancing flames, now yellow, now orange, now crimson.

From across the water, a lone loon called. An answer followed. 200 yards ahead pine and birch dotted the massive rock that made up the tiny one acre island that appeared to float suspended between earth and sky. I shivered in the chill morning air with its grainy granite scent mixed with dry leaves and smoke from a nearby woodstove -- a sure sign that winter was imminent.
Pure crystal lakes carved out of granite by the slow passage of glaciers in the last ice age, the Muskokas, located two hours north of Toronto, are a Huckleberry Finn kind of place, a place to mess about in boats.

Nature has been minimally interfered with here and yet the area offers fine old 19th century wood hotels and miles and miles of shoreline to build a summer home.

I was there to visit my friend, Kathy who’s summered there since childhood. I’d walked down to the shore of her little island to watch for the Segwun, the 112 year old steamboat. Today most cottagers -- as they refer to themselves -- have their own boats. The Segwun was rehabilitated by donations from locals 10 years ago and is now used for daily tours of the lakes and evening supper cruises.

They have a superb restaurant on board with a full dining room appointed with white linen and silver to enhance the experience of nostalgia that is part of the charm of the area.

The sound of a motor grew closer, breaking the stillness. It was followed immediately by another. Soon two mahogany plankboats pulled up to the dock in front of the boathouse. Today there was to be a gathering when the antique boats -- many seen rarely -- would come out to greet the Segwun and celebrate its long and faithful service.

I’d never seen a plankboat before and hurried over, dusting off the leaves from my clothes as I joined them.

“They look like dolphin,” I exclaimed in delight at their long sleek rounded design.
Dick and Jerry, the respective owners and childhood friends of my hostess, Kathy, smiled proudly and invited me to inspect their prize possessions.

“How do you keep them so perfect? I mean they look new.” I ran my hand over the silkysmooth surface of the lush heavily lacquered wood and the red leather that was stitched to padded cushions. The brass and chrome fittings gleamed in the sun.

“Boathouses protect them -- and a lot of varnish and elbow grease.” Dick laughed. “Next to Lake Tahoe in California, Muskoka has the largest number of well equipped boathouses to insulate the boats from the weather. ” A native and a full-time resident of the area, Dick was also an expert on plankboats.

We headed out to follow the Segwun and join the growing flotilla of antique boats. Soon there were fifty or sixty, the water rough from the wakes of so many. The plankboats were 20 to 40 feet long. As each one came in sight Dick would call out their names-- names derived from master builders of the lost craft: Ditchburn, Minett, Greavette, Duke. There was a feeling of exhilaration in the air as friends greeted one another and admired the array of elegant trophies.

The Segwun blew its deep raspy whistle as we gathered around her, bobbing in the water like ardent suitors for a great lady.
Bare-chested men leaned out with cameras to capture the image of the Segwun or of a a favorite “mahogany.” Some of the boats were crammed full of people with children hanging over the sides, their hands full of drinks, binoculars, ice cream bars, and sandwiches. Several of the boats presented a more sedate image and were elegantly appointed.

One in particular caught my eye-- the single man and woman were dressed in crisp white suits. The man wore a captain’s hat with gold ensignia, the woman, a wide-brimmed black hat that looked directly out of the 19th century. Their drinks were in champagne glasses.

The array of hats on all of the passengers was a sight in and of itself: baseball caps, golfcaps, sailor’s hats, captain’s hats, sunbonnets, sunshades, fabulous large brimmed hats bedecked with bright flowers.

“How about a tour?” asked Dick when the excitement died down and the boats broke up, transporting people to the next event of their day: nap under a pine tree, golf at the club, lunch with friends, a waterski lesson.

“Absolutely,” I answered enthusiastically. I’d arrived the day before and had only seen Kathy’s island.
Dick waved to Jerry to follow. He and Kathy were bobbing beside us in the other boat, and we sped across Lake Rosseau. As we approached the shore the outlines of a huge white structure came into focus. A smooth green lawn spread from its base in a widening semi-circle until it met the water. We pulled up at the dock. As I stepped onto the woodboards it felt like we’d gone through a timewarp and were now in the 19th century.

This was the Windermere House. Like a gracious bird with outspread feathered wings the old Victorian wood hotel stood over us, symbol of a bygone time. Just the sight of her made me nostalgic. Tennis courts, swimming pools, recreation hall for nightly movies and dances, restaurants, boating, skiing, and swim lessons. The list of services was as long and gracious as the lawn where croquet was played.

Dick suggested we stop in for oysters, a local specialty. To my glee when Jerry and Kathy joined us a few minutes later from the other boat, Jerry’s dog was also welcomed to the outdoor dining area where we sat overlooking the lake.
The air temperature was a perfect 75 degrees with a slight breeze that came up from the lake. Lake Rosseau is large but not so large that you can’t see a good deal of the shoreline, and all along the ins and outs of its perimeter the trees had turned color. It was breathtaking. The brilliant hues of reds, oranges and golds framed the cerulean blue of the lake like an ornate setting for a saphhire. Occasionally within the large expanse of blue, differing sizes of islands rose up like exclamation points of light.
As we devoured the luscious slippery shell creatures, washing them down with cold beer from frosty glasses, Kathy and her childhood friends told me a little about the history of the area.

The Muskoka’s were first developed for transportion of logs for the logging industry. Around that time locks between the four lakes were made. Up to the1860’s, Muskoka was still Indian territory -- Iroquois, Algonquin, Ojibway, Mohawk -- known to fur traders, surveyors and settlers come for free land grants. When the railroads opened up the territory in the1880’s, word of the region’s beauty spread to Toronto and cities in the northeast United States, drawing wealthy families to come for the summer. At one time there were over 50 gracious hotels similar to the Windermere. Now only a handfull remain. In fact, the Windermere was burned down several years ago and people were so distraught at the loss that it was soon rebuilt.
Lovers of Muskoka began to build their own summer homes and to buy the small islands that dot the lakes. Many people today have been coming for several generations. But for newcomers there are still a few grandhotels left that make a wonderful introduction to the neighborhood as well as several more moderate accommodations.

When we returned to Kathy’s, I lay out under a stand of birch beside the house where I could watch the light play through golden leaves that fluttered in the breeze. I could hear boats moving across the lake in the distance, but nothing else. The calm felt as deep as the water that surrounded me, and I slept like a baby.
I woke lazily to the clattering of pans and smell of burning charcoal. Kathy suggested we go out in her canoe to catch the last light on the water while the coals were heating.

As we pushed the small craft off shore the scent of wet wood in the still warm sun mingled deliciously with water weeds. Kathy skillfully dipped the paddle through the water and we glided silently away to where the reflections of colored leaves also danced away from the land. From our vantage sitting on the surface of the water, the lowering sun was also caught and shone back hundreds of times. It was like being inside a complex jewel and everywhere I turned color and light glistened around me. I dangled my arm over the side letting my fingers run through the warm water.

As she paddled, Kathy told me about life on the lakes 30 years age; about Sunday night movies at the lodges, about Tuesday nights when they’d dress up --the boys in suits and ties, the girls in full skirts with crinolines -- and head out in their boats to Dunn’s Pavilion, the local dancehall. There they’d listen to the Big Bands and swingdance. “During the days, like Rat and Mole from The Wind in the Willows, we were obsessed with boats.” She laughed. “We all had our own, even if it was only a small dingy. That was important.”

It was easy for me to imagine her here in her canoe long ago. She was a cottager, which also meant she was a boatperson, and the years of familiarity gave her a sureness that was relaxing to be around. I was certain that whatever happened, she’d be able to manage it, and so I leaned back in the canoe and let her carry me backward in time as we rowed forward to the Little Jo River.

“Some things haven’t changed,” she said. “Today the boats are faster, louder and far more expensive, but for the young people who summer on the Muskokas -- whatever their age -- time spent here is boat-time. It’s a kind of time before time, where your imagination expands. I guess it’s the effect of having water all around you. Your eyes soften their focus and your mind seems to spread out. When the lake moves it’s like a huge running organism. In the fall when the winds really come up, I sometimes imagine Poseidon rising from the water. The weather can change two or three times a day, so you’re always watching out for what’s coming.”

The lap of the oar as it dipped into the water and the gentle sound of Kathy’s voice lulled me into a hypnotic reverie.

“Now look.” Kathy pointed the oar to the left where we were coming close to land. “This is the Little Jo River . It connects Lake Rosseau with Lake Joseph.”
I sat up to be greeted by an almost make-believe world. The river wasn’t more than 75 feet across and on either side were trees in bright autumn foliage that reflected clear across the river. On the surface of the water, orange, yellow and red leaves floated like colored stars. The river was burning with color. To the left sharp grey rocks on the shore were studded with leaves and were perfectly mirrored in the water, so that I couldn’t tell which end was up.
Kathy turned around to see my face. We smiled at each other, happy to share this moment.

Suddenly movement ahead caught my eye. A white and black form descended to rest on the water.“What’s that?” I asked.
“A loon. They gather in the fall to get ready to leave, so you’ll often hear them, especially early and late in the day. The call now is different than it is in the spring. Listen, maybe it will call.”
The graceful arc of the bird’s white neck was silhouetted by the setting sun.
Kathy sighed. “I always know the season’s ending when the loons begin to gather. It’s such a mixed feeling for me. Most people don’t close their cottages until after Thanksgiving in October, even though the kids have to be back in school earlier. We always came back up for the last few week-ends. I never want it to end.”
For some time the loon glided about gently, and we heard no call, so we finally turned and rowed back home for dinner. But something in that moment perfectly reflected the feeling of Muskoka for me, and the feeling of autumn when the call to something else is felt by all of us.