Month: March 2020

Scattered settlers and early cottagers along the Georgian Bay shores relied upon small local steamboats for supplies and transportation during the navigation season. One of the year-round people was James Drummond, a widower who settled on a small mainland bay north of Honey Harbour in 1899.

He built a frame cottage and two stone barns on his land. At the water’s edge a stone pier jutted into deep water where inter-island vessels could dock.

Drummond wrested what produce he could grow from the meagre soil, kept some livestock, and subsisted by using his place as an unoffical store and meeting place for the summer community. Over the years his most substantial income probably came from the sale of his waterfront property to cottagers.

Drummond was one of a handful of settlers on the shore just after the turn of the last century. It was a lonely and hard existence, especially in winter when the elements isolated them from the outside world for lengthy periods. Perhaps it was lonelier in Drummond’s case because of a certain aloofness and independence the man had. Some even remembered him as hermit-like. But a weakling he was not.

It was in December, 1936, when Drummond was nearly 87, that he fell on the ice and broke his left hip. Alone, and with his left leg useless, he dragged himself to the door of his cottage with the full knowledge that this could be his end. But with a strong faith and an ingenuity born of 37 years on the shore, the old man kept both himself and his animals warm and fed for ten days until help arrived in the form of two younger men, Joe Corbiere and Jim Nicholson.

“Pluck is all a man needs at any time,” he remarked later when telling his story to a reporter.

Jim Drummond came to the shore from Prince Edward County after his wife died in 1881. He was granted his land under a government program encouraging settlement in the Muskoka region. As he established his backwoods farm with its sparse resources, Drummond’s eccentric personality was gradually revealed. His neighbours found some of his traits amusing and others very annoying.

He and a cohort took on a job of building a stone fireplace in a neighbour’s cottage. It would take two weeks, they said. Jim and his gray mare Queenie would collect stones while the other man would do the actual masonry.

The trouble was, instead of stabling Queenie in his barn overnight, Jim would let her wander free so she could graze from nature’s bounty off the land. Next morning the men might spend half the day searching for the mare to haul the stone-boat with rocks for the mason to do his work.

Instead of two weeks, the job took all summer. The cottage owner seethed in silent rage.

As cottages sprang up around the little bay, Drummond’s place became a sort of backup store for tourists who ran out of certain items that he might be able to provide. It was as hit-or-miss situation because Jim’s dependability was sometimes questionable.

However he saw an opportunity and was approved to operate an “account” post office, some sort of seasonal temporary service for the area.

One cottager who carried on a lot of correspondence during the summer, a Mrs. Plumtree, was skeptical of Drummond’s reliability and preferred to send her mail by boat directly to Penetanguishene. But to be fair she thought she would at least buy her stamps from him. So she sent a youngster over to Drummond’s to get some.

Certainly not, declared the indignant “account” postmaster. If Mrs, Plumtree wasn’t sending her mail through him she could not expect to buy her stamps there either!

In the long, dark evenings of the off-season Drummond eased the loneliness by reading books aloud, giving a different voice to each character in the story. A favourite was the Tarzan of the Jungle series. Apparently he continued entertaining himself this way into the summer, leading neighbours to think he had a crowd of visitors in his house.

Jim Drummond had a long white beard, probably somewhat discoloured in his final years. There was a family story of my parents paying him a visit, with June just a toddler, and their first dog, a terrier named Judy. June and Judy were fascinated with that beard. Judy so much so that she buried her nose in its delightful (to a dog) scents. The visiit was cut short to reduce embarrassment.

On the east side of Tomahawk Island is a narrow S-curve channel. In the days before power boats it must have been a peaceful, serene waterway protected from the winds and waves of the main channel on the west side of the island. A frequent user of it in the 1930s was an elderly genttleman known by the cottagers as Joe Kirby. He earned a living doing maintenance on cottages north of the narrows.

Joe got around using a small dark green open boat powered by a “one lunger”, a single-cylinder make-and-break engine whose exhaust made a horrendous racket. Apparently that didn’t bother him because he was nearly stone deaf. He would swing the flywheel to start the motor, then settle on the closest seat, grasp the steering lanyards connected to the rudder, and head out onto the channel. He sat back like he was in an armchair, enjoying the passing scenery as the boat carried him along at a sedate speed.

At Wahnuhke we got so used to hearing the putt-putt of the boat getting louder as it passed by we’d glance up and say, “There goes Joe Kirby”.

One day an adult member of the family — who shall remain anonymous, and is no longer with us — was northbound in the Blackduck, negotiating the last curve from the narrows and picking up speed.

The Blackduck was 24 feet long and threw quite a large bow wave when her throttle was opened. From the steering position it wasn’t easy to see what was really close by on either side.

Sure enough, (I am imagining now how this scenario played out) suddenly almost right beside the skipper appeared a shocked and drenched Joe Kirby, water running off his battered old fedora as he wondered what on earth had snuck up astern to try and sink him. No doubt the big wave also doused the one-lunger which probably stopped dead, and filled the little green boat with gallons of Bay water.

What he might have lacked in seamanship skills the skipper more than made up for in kind-heartedness. That much I know for certain. I am sure he remorsefully helped bail out Joe’s boat, probably tried to dry him off, attempted to get his engiine re-started, or maybe even towed him to his destination. All this while poor, deaf Joe was still recovering from the shock.

But I believe there was much more to “Joe Kirby” than the elderly maintenance man. His name was really Joe Corbiere, one of the last of the settlers of Beausoleil Island who lived there after the First Nations people moved to Christian Island in the mid-1800s. (See Beautiful Beausoleil).

Parks Canada in a published history of Beausoleil Island (now the National Park) states that by 1856 the big island was surrendered by the First Nations, who were gradually then replaced there by homesteaders. The historian describes them as “…the first real pioneers on the island.

“They were a tough breed of men and women who managed to squeeze a living out of this barren yet hauntingly beautiful land.”

“Initially the settlers were all Ojibwa, but in time, homesteaders of other origins drifted to the island: French voyageurs, Scottish immigrants and Pottawottamie Indians from the United States.”

“Among those who lived on Beausoleil Island was Joe Corbiere, a French voyageur. A lilac bush still grows on the shores of Frying Pan Bay, at the spot where Joe and his wife Susan lived.

“Joe was a well-educated man who could read three languages: French, Ojibwa and English. Years later when he became deaf, he learned to lipread in all three languages. According to government records, the Corbieres had, in the year 1929, a fairly good log house with a frame lean-to and a log barn. Three cows, one pig and some chickens.”

“The Corbieres also kept a large garden where they grew corn, potatoes, oats and strawberries. Joe trapped, sold furs and filled ice houses for the ever increasing number of visitors and residents to the area.

“Gradually, the homesteaders moved away. In the few years preceding the formation of the park (1930), only three families remained: the Corbieres, Tonches and the Tobeys.”

The historian concludes, “In preparation for the opening of the park, the three remaining families were compensated and moved off the island.” I believe the Tobeys moved to Honey Harbour and maybe the two other families did as well. Even though the narrows is just across the main channel from Frying Pan Bay, it is likely Joe Corbiere might have been commuting from the Harbour by then.

Frying Pan Bay eventually was occupied by Camp Wabanaki of the Kitchener-Waterloo YMCA, which is where I met my wife Daphne, the camp nurse, in 1967. The camp is gone now and the bay is a popular anchorage and campsite for the Georgian Bay Islands National Park.

I wonder if Joe and Susan’s lilac bush is still blooming there?

Mark Coles writes: The Lilac bush is still there where the Frying Pan Bay homestead was located. The very place where Orville Wright used to make his daily run for milk in the Gidley-built Kittyhawk.

He talked like a really tough, old-school skipper. But when we met Capt. Don Keith in 1970 his mask slipped a bit revealing an old rascal with a sense of humour and a capacity for mischief. He’s been gone for many years now but I still remember him fondly though I didn’t know him well.

In the early spring that year Capt. Keith brought in the CSL freighter Georgian Bay as the first ship docking at Midland that year. Being a marine buff, as news editor of the Free Press Herald and reporter of town council affairs, I accompanied officials aboard the ship to view the traditional presentation of a top hat to the skipper, which they did.

After the ceremony it was customery for the captain to open his beverage locker and offer the visitors a libation or two, which Capt. Keith did.

It was then time for photos of the presentation to be staged, as setting up the picture was really the only way to get everyone smiling and in the desired position. And this, I did.

Right after the official photo had been taken, the captain whipped off the top hat and put on his own, then ducked behind Reeve Harvey Ellison, who was representing the town, and placed the topper on his head. We were glad the reeve had good sized ears otherwise we might have lost his entire head inside that hat. The photo shows everyone in good form — Harvey smiling from under the hat brim, Deputy Reeve T.M. McCullough with an approving look, and the captain with a saucy grin.

Afterwards I lingered awhile to chat with the skipper about himself, his crew and his ship. As I was leaving he invited me to bring my wife Daphne to join him for dinner aboard the Georgian Bay that evening.

Neither I nor Daphne are good with heights, but I had managed earlier in the day to go up and down the ship’s side on the shaky aluminum ladder used for the purpose, so I knew what to expect. How to make it easier for a tiny woman, nearly five months pregnant, who was pretty much terrified at the prospect?

Send her up first, I decided. But I would be right below her, offering encouragement and blocking the view somewhat if she made the mistake of looking down. Yes, as we got about halfway up of course the ladder shook more, but my gutsy Newfoundlander kept going, and at the top was helped aboard by the skipper himself.

Daphne loved older men who could turn on the charm, and Don Keith did that in spades. We had dinner with the crew in the aft end of the ship, then he showed us around the forward superstructure, particularly the wheelhouse where he proudly maintained control of his ship, under all circumstances, he assured us, pointing to a small lever under the forward windows. He did not elaborate and we didn’t ask.

Our descent down the ladder was easier because it was dark by then. The Georgian Bay would be departing right after unloading her cargo of grain so we would not see Capt. Keith again for some time.

On a future visit to Midland he came over to our apartment for dinner, and brought a toddler’s sailor suit for our recently born son who, by the way, as an adult of 50 is also allergic to heights.

Capt. Keith was a native of Collingwood, which coincidentally is where the Georgian Bay was built in 1953. He retired from Canada Steamship Lines in 1975 and passed away in 1981 before we could see him again, though we did exchange Christmas cards. The ship was also retired around 1982 and was scrapped in Turkey in 1989.

With packed snow squeaking underfoot, the two young Englishmen shouldered their knapsacks, clipped their boots onto long wooden skis, grasped their poles, and looked out across the ice of Midland harbour at the route they would follow. It was mid-winter of 1940.

“Right,” said Ken, elder of the brothers, “let’s get started.” Ron agreed, and they set off with long even strides towards Midland Point, aiming for Wahnuhke island some 12 miles to the northeast, past the other end of Beausoleil Island.

Kenneth and Ronald With were in their early thirties, the former married with two children, the latter a bachelor. Both had island cottages where they were headed. They lived in Toronto and had been partners in a short-lived wool importing business that had died with Canada’s declaration of war against Germany the previous September. They had each then volunteered for the military — Ken for the navy and Ron the army — and were waiting to be called up for active service.

Their reason for waiting at the islands isn’t known for certain, but their probable absences overseas for who knew how long, and the need to put things in order at their cottages even though it was winter, likely had something to do with it. Plus, the fact that both were artists who loved painting Georgian Bay landscapes and this was a chance to sketch some winter subjects.

In those days, once the Bay ice had thickened, travel was mostly by foot (aided by skis, skates, snowshoes, or combinations thereof), or sleighs pulled by horses or dogs. The Withs had used most of those winter methods to reach their islands since the cottages had been built four years previously. The brothers would stay at Ken’s place on the north end of Wahnuhke, and Ron could easily walk or ski to his island, which he had named Aberfeldy, a quarter-mile away.

Heavy wooden shutters covered all the cottages’ windows and doors. There was no electricity. A big stone fireplace and small box woodstove heated the living room, while a wood-burning cookstove in the kitchen had a dual role there.

There was no insulation in the walls or ceilings and no storm windows to help keep the heat in. It took a long, long time to warm up the living room, so it’s likely the brothers spent most of their indoor time in the smaller kitchen.

Other than sketching and skiing around the islands, we don’t know how they spent their time, or actually how long they were there. If their call-up orders came, they had arranged for someone to bring the message to them.

However as the days passed and supplies ran low, it was decided that one of them should “go out” to re-stock and get news of the war. Ken decided he would do it — a good chance to contact his family.

So, probably very early one morning, he skied down the channel to Beausoleil, crossed the north end of that island, then went directly south down the length of Beausoleil Bay and continued across the ice to Midland.

He was gone for more than a day so it’s likely he took the train or bus to Toronto. When he arrived back in Midland he picked up supplies for a bit longer stay at the island, then late in the day headed out across the ice again

It was night time when he wearily plodded up the sloping snow covered rocks at the cottage, took off his skis, opened the shutter and inside doors, and startled his sleeping brother awake as he dropped his bulging knapsack on the floor.

No doubt a lamp was lit, the stove was given more wood, a bottle of whisky was opened, and the news of the trip, the war, and the family was passed along to an eagerly awaiting, and probably somewhat lonely, Ron.

We don’t know if Ken brought back any word about their call-up orders but he must have made enquiries. In any case, they eventually came through, the brothers closed their cottages for the long term, packed their knapsacks, and struck off for Midland and Toronto to face unknown but inevitable changes in their lives.

Kenneth became a lieutenant in the Royal Canadian Navy Volunteer Reserve and served as a gunnery officer on merchant ships in the English Channel until 1943. He then returned to Canada — promoted to lieutenant-commander — to oversee naval gunnery training for the duration of the war, based in Ottawa.

Ronald attained the rank of captain in the Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada. The brothers briefly reunited when chances arose, then Ron himself went overseas and saw action. He was wounded twice, the last time in Normandy, France, following the D-Day invasion of 1944.

Ron’s recovery from that second and most serious injury took several years. In the spring of 1948 he was convalescing with Granny at her cottage in the middle of Wahnuhke island, following what might have been the final surgery on his shattered foot. He was not yet able to live on his own at Aberfeldy, or even re-launch his inboard boat Tanniwaw, stored in Honey Harbour.

He did spend a lot of time in Granny’s rowboat trolling for pike and, after the season opened, black bass, using homemade spinners cut from tin cans.

He lost one once when his line broke and the fish got away, so he made a replacement. With that one, days later he trolled around the south end of the island and landed a nice pike. Hooked in its mouth was his lost spinner!