When you go out to the woods today
2002 01 06
|
etc
no date
2024 +
2025
entries
home
In the town of Ancaster there is a place called the Hermitage; an old, burned out, and supposedly haunted farm house. The stories of why it's haunted are many, and no one can be sure which is true; at least I'm not. All I know is that the place does have an aura about it; a very strange feeling.
What's left of the house - hollow and gutted - stands alone in a clearing; remnants of stone walls that have managed to survive several fires. In fact, if you look into the corner of two of them, you can see a burnt section of wall that was more likely left by the smoke rising from someone's campfire than anything else. We all, in our minds that need ghost stories and explanations of everything, imagine that the smoke pattern on the wall is in the shape of a young woman; the young woman who supposedly haunts the place.
You can see her at night, they say, framed in the misshapen remains of an upper window; forever waiting for her lost love.
Being in the middle of the woods the house and clearing are a favourite haunt for the bush parties of teenagers, who flock there at night during the warmer months, and hikers. The Bruce Trail touches there, in fact; a series of hiking trails that snake all over the Niagara region of Southern Ontario.
One sunny, summery afternoon my friend Diane and I drove out there to the Hermitage. Neither of us had ever seen it during the day; in fact, I bet most people haven't. We walked around the farm house and then went into the trails.
We had a stroke of genius, "Hey, let's pack some sandwiches one day, and walk from here to Tobermorey." which is another town you can reach through the Bruce Trail. Somehow it had escaped both our minds that Tobermorey isn't exactly… nearby. We abandoned our plan post haste when we got back to civilisation and someone told us just precisely how long it takes to drive there, nevermind walk.
it's wonderful out there, the trees are so tall and straight, and the light filters down in a light golden green. They're close, but not choking like some forests. There is enough space for you to wander freely and sit comfortably. it's these kinds of woods I like best, where I can feel cocooned, but not strangled.
I was looking up, trying to see the woodpecker I could hear rat-tat-tatting somewhere high above, and was about to take a step forward when I looked down at my feet; and immediately got down on my hands and knees to get a much closer look at what was there.
A trillium, with it's trefoil petals, so clean and white and solitary.
They're very rare, the trilliums. Having a growth span of seven years, and being illegal to pick; they’ve won their place as the provincial flower of Ontario.
It never occurred to me to want a camera; even though I'd never seen one before, and haven't seen one since. It seemed right and perfect where it was. Right and perfect and sublime in its nest at the foot of that tree.