April 23, 1917
I wrote a letter to my brother-in-law this morning and decided to take a long hike up along the creek to Potter Lake.
The creek is swollen and the current is running fast. In the summertime I can canoe a good portion of this creek but I wouldn’t even try any of it now. The clear sections of the creek are easy to canoe, but right now the current is so fast that you wouldn’t have a chance to stop yourself before you hit the rocks. The water is high, reaching to the roots of the pine trees on the rocks. I’m amazed how tenacious these trees are. Wherever there is a hint of soil or something to grab onto, a pine is sure to grow.
Writing the letter to my brother-in-law made me think about my plans this summer. I’ll guide for the first part of summer. I plan to get my license this Saturday. I’m sure George Bartlett will be back from one of his Park excursions. He likes to be at the Headquarters on the weekend because that’s when the guests arrive at the Highland Inn or leave. The weekend is the best time to attend to Park business: issuing fishing licenses, keeping bank drafts for safekeeping, etc.
I’ve resolved not to do fire-ranging this summer. It’s a job that takes away from everything else. Last year’s drought made the job really tough. When you’re a guide, you’re welcome company. But when you’re a fire-ranger, you’re the last person anyone wants to see. Lumbermen don’t like to be chummy with the fire-rangers. There were some bad fires last year. A few bad ones in the Park, but a really bad fire up by Cochrane. That fire wiped clean of the face of the earth, complete towns and townships.
On my way back, I walked by the bridge over Potter Creek. I took the shortcut by the schoolhouse (the door still looked broken). I made my around the chipyard and finally back to the Lodge. Along my way, I saw six deer were staring at me. I knew they were coming back from the Algonquin Hotel looking for a handout. The hotel guests were feeding them last summer. Those memories must have stayed with the herd over the winter, so they’re back. They’ve lost their fear of people. That’ll change when the deer-kill starts.
Tom Thomson's Last Spring 