For the next three weeks, I’ll be at my friends, Steve and Ruta Muhlberger, minding their farm while they’re away. A pleasant atmosphere, and not much work involved, as there are only three horses, two dogs and some cats to care for, nowadays. And the fields are so lush from rain that the horses can pretty much fend for themselves. There is also an infinite supply of blueberries and raspberries, unless the bears vacuum them up before I can pick them. Fresh berries, fresh eggs, milk straight from the cow. Sunlight, starry skies, crisp clean air. Boy, do I ever need a dose of this stuff. I have a small amount of contractual work to do, while I’m here, but for the most part I’ll be working on my own stuff ― a rare and blessed luxury.
It’s not strictly speaking in Northern Ontario (where farms are rare), but in sight of the indigo ridge that marks its southern margin. I’m in the narrow corridor of the Mattawa River, still mostly forest, but with a scattering of farms and villages, sandwiched in between two blocks of uninhabited shield country to the north and south. On the north side of the valley, the Mattawa river hugs the ridge, past which the forest grows darker, the climate colder, and the people scarcer. But to the south it’s almost as unspoiled. If you followed a straight line from the property’s southern fence, you will not cross another cultivated or pastured acre for 200 kilometres. Coyotes, wolves and bears wander onto the property, but they seldom cause much harm (It was a bit different when the Muhlbergers kept sheep). Tame stuff by Northern Ontario standards, but not bad for Southern Ontario. There’s even a waterfall just on the edge of the lot. At this time of year, I can expect hot days, but cool nights, and spectacular thunder storms marching down a regular track from the northwest. Maybe some nice aurora if the sun is itchy this year. And it’s a short walk to swim in Lake Nosbonsing.
I noticed that the farms and houses seem more prosperous-looking than they did a decade ago, and Steve and Ruta agreed that they are. And a bit more socially sophisticated. We stopped to pick up fresh cow milk at a farm that proudly flew the Rainbow Flag, where we were greeted at the gate by two huge pigs of the Vietnamese breed, and then chatted amiably with Brenda, one of the owners, whom I was told is a good person for advice if a farm emergency occurs. We picked up eggs at another farm, this one with a huge house, hand-built by the owners. Its interior was floored, trimmed, and furnished with gorgeous mountain ash that they had cut and milled themselves. The fiddleback grain, which requires more difficult millwork, gave the floors an enchanting shimmer in the sunlight. Elsewhere, Ruta pointed out a gleaming, spic-and-span farm, operated by another gay couple. Is Canada’s new social trend the the infusion of the countryside with a generation of salt-of-the-earth Lesbian and Gay farmers? If so, there’s hope for our country, for this place reeks of hard-core, hockey-and-donuts Canadianess, and they manage to fit in well enough.
The valley was, for centuries, the principal canoe route for the coureurs-des-bois, heading out west, but it had no settlers until the 1880s. My paternal grandmother was one of the earliest settlers. French-Irish lumberjacks moved up the Ottawa Valley, and when they were injured or retired from the river, they started farms, supplying produce for the key railway junction at North Bay. Until recently, French was the overwhelmingly predominant language. Access remained by rail. No road was pushed through the valley to the Ottawa River until 1957. Farming is tricky work here. Fertile soil comes only in small patches, and 95% of the valley remains forest, lake, and swamp. The Muhlbergers grow no crops, and use the un-forested half of the property only for grazing. A wet year has made it greener than I’ve ever seen it, and the pastures are speckled with daisies, buttercups, and bluebells, the traditional motifs of Ojibway art.
Trapped in apartment in Toronto, reduced to scraping a living by crouching at a computer, cranking out dull reports and filling excel tables, my body is far from what it was and far from what it should be. This sojourn will act as a needed restorative.
One thing that disturbs me profoundly is the fact that an entire generation in North America knows nothing of the sublime beauty to be experienced on this planet. I don’t only mean Iguacu Falls and the Moonhill of Yangshuo and the great Caribou herds thundering across the barrens. I mean the hundreds of thousands of places where a bend in the road is just right, where a white steeple pokes out of the maples trees, where kids dive from rock in the middle of a lazy river, or an ancient and mysterious mound lies unnoticed in a field. We have a planet of intricate, never-ending wonder and spiritual depth. But, instead of being able to drink it in and savour it, we are forced to spend most of our time listening to the commands of rich and powerful assholes, the blatherings of empty-headed celebrities, and the inane rantings of conservative morons. It would be true and sweet freedom indeed to be free of that wasted time, and fabulous wealth indeed if we could delight in, unmolested, the treasures of our inheritance.
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