April 12, 1917
I wrote a letter to Jim MacDonald. I want to get it posted this morning so it gets on its way to Toronto. The reason for my letter was to ask him to send up some paints. I’m not yet running low, but I’m using a lot of white, more than I expected. I also forgot my flyhooks so I asked him to find them and send them up. I’m keen to go fishing in the open water soon. I can see the brookies and they will be biting soon.
This morning, I walked the path up to Canoe Lake Station. Along the way, Shannon’s sap pails are still out but it’s nearing the end of the sap season. Maybe a day or two left. It’s the tricky in-between season and the path is snow-slush or mud. It’s still impassable by any wheeled vehicle and it’s tough to get the sled through the mud. It’s hard for the horses to pull through this stuff. This time of the year is hardest for the the horses and in the lumber camps it’s time of of year that they most likely to die from an accident, or exhaustion, having made it through the hardship of winter, but unable to cope with the uncertain demands of spring.
The ice is still thick on Potter creek so I decided to cut across where I knew it was still safe and went to Joe Lake Dam. Below the dam, I walked along Joe Creek, about 100 yards to a spot where I like to fish in the summer. This spot stays in the shadows and there’s still lots of snow. The creek is flowing clear of ice, but it is still a narrow channel. That was my scene to sketch today.
When I was done, I stopped by to see the Colsons at the Algonquin Hotel. They’re busy trying to get the outfit open by May. Ed and Molly Colson were the managers at the Highland Inn, but during this past winter they decided to strike out on their own and they bought the hotel from the Rochester owner. It’s a big risk for them, but I have full confidence they’ll succeed, mostly due to Molly. Molly’s discipline and resolve to succeed is stronger than anything or anyone in the Park. At the Highland Inn, Molly ran a tight ship and I’m sure she will do the same at the Algonquin.
Ed’s older sister, Annie Colson, came along too. She’s going to run the outfitter’s store down by Joe Lake. Annie has the reputation of getting all of the provisions just right for any canoe trip. Nothing too much, or not enough, but just right. She had a knack for sizing up a company just before they left, adding or subtracting provisions, as required.
It was Annie (not Shannon’s Annie) who greeted me at the front door. I could tell she had been working hard but was ready for a quick break. She invited me in for tea in the kitchen. It was warm, the big range was burning full-tilt, heating water for the laundry. Lizzie Dennison was in the kitchen too. She worked for the previous hotel owners. But stayed on to work for the Colsons. In the winter she was the cook at one of the nearby lumber camps and in spring she’d come to help get the hotel ready for the summer. Molly’s kept her on to work for her.
The tea break was prompt and short. I could sense that Annie wanted to get back to work. I didn’t see Molly but I had a feeling she knew I was around but decided that she had better things to do. I bid good afternoon and moved on my way.
I stopped at the Joe Lake shelter house. I wanted to see how Mark Robinson was doing. I knocked on the door and stepped in. Mark was just getting off the telephone. It was still a novelty for him, George Bartlett had a line installed along the rails connecting from Rainy Lake to Whitney. Bartlett had heard that the British ruled India by telegraph and he was determined to do the same in the Park but with the telephone. Mark said he was hoping to get the telephone line run to Scotia Junction so he could call North Bay and Toronto. On the outside Mark was doing fine, but I could tell that he had something burning on the inside, so I made my visit a short courtesy call, and again, moved on my way back to the lodge.
The day had progressed and it became more beautiful in the afternoon. The sky had the clouds that you only see in the spring. Not the angry thunderclouds of summer, but the cotton puffy clouds that looked like sheep. Over the course of the afternoon, these sheep clouds continued to gather thickly in the eastern horizon while the western horizon was as clear a blue as it could be. I was tempted to sit down and do another sketch but my socks and larrigans were wet. If I still had my camera, I would have taken a photograph.
Back at the lodge, a letter was waiting for me. It was from my father. He wrote that mother was feeling better and the War was worrying everyone. They visited Tom and Elizabeth in Annan, the first time since the beginning of winter. Father and mother visited our former neighbours, the McKeens, but didn’t go to see the old farm. The farm was out of the family now, and it didn’t seem right to visit it any more. I felt the same way too. The farm in Leith had been a good part of my life, but I’ve moved on.
I am here now, but I feel like I need to keep moving on.