I have three Grey Squirrels that have suddenly started showing up when I park the tractor for a coffee break. They appear to be older individuals. Besides a peanut or two, they seem to enjoy conversation.
I have just published a sequence of poems set in Algonquin Park, coincidental with the Park’s 125th anniversary.
The poems are based on my almost sixty years of exploring the Park.
This September, 2018, we drove up to spend a few days on Rock Lake on Algonquin’s southeast side. However, our plans were derailed by intense storms that had just wracked the area. Power outages and other hazardous conditions had closed many of the Park’s facilities.
We detoured to Canisbay Campground, the only one still open in the Park. As it happened, I had last been in Canisbay more than fifty years ago, camping with parents and sisters. This recent stay provided time for reflection, and became the inspiration for this set of poems.
The tract has been hand-assembled into ‘chapbook’ form (forest-sustainable paper and stitched with vintage Irish thread), and also eBook. It is the first installment in what will be a series relating to Algonquin Park. A second, longer volume, “Into The Interior,” is underway.
I dropped a couple of copies off at the Algonquin Art Center. There is no set cost, although a donation to the Center would be appreciated (if you can find a copy). Otherwise drop a line to firstname.lastname@example.org
Also available as an eBook, free, yes free, for the duration of Algonquin Park’s 125th anniversary.
November 1. Part 2 of my Algonquin Park series, “Into The Interior,” is now available as an eBook. A printed chapbook edition will be out shortly.
This second poem sequence focuses on a solo 1980’s canoe trip into the Crow River area of Algonquin Park.
Residing for the past thirty years in the Humber River Valley, within sight of the McMichael Gallery – that quintessential Thomson shrine – and canoeing a sizeable portion of Algonquin Park, has been more than slightly conducive to a close study of the works of Tom Thomson.
And, besides having an active personal interest in the artistic creative process, I have been inspired by my late sister Pat Garratt, who was an art historian (University of Guelph). We often talked about Thomson, and art in general. Pat noted that the life of a work of art could effectively come to an untimely end, once hung on a gallery wall. Her point was that art is at least a three-way mystery, dependent upon a viewer bringing new life, new wonder, and new love to the table.
The art of Tom Thomson is refreshed by each viewer who is surprised, often repeatedly, by the strength of communication that can occur in proportion to the depth and authenticity with which artist and viewer has/had contact with the third party – the ‘outer world’ – in this case Algonquin Park.
The loss or other unforeseeable diminution (aesthetic devaluation through undue veneration of urban environments and issues in some looming dystopia?) of Algonquin Park, would thus lead to an impoverishment of Thomson’s art. It would become more of a lonely academic exercise – humans speaking to humans.
Tom Thomson’s muse is certainly found in the Park. And he was undoubtedly predisposed psychologically to ‘be creative.’ His questing, restless ‘aloneness,’ and the temper of the times would have impelled him toward some kind of expression.
Yet many other people, aspiring artists included, have found themselves in similar straits, and have come up empty-handed.
What Tom Thomson had in spades – besides a little talent and luck – was willpower. The ‘will,’ with respect to human artistic creative process, is essentially mysterious, hidden within an individual’s invisible labyrinth. It enabled Tom to channel his energies in new, creative ways with successful, positive results within his allotted time.
I’ve already detailed some of Tom’s everyday gear and procedures. Within that context, it’s appropriate to look more closely at his painterly methods.
It’s immediately noticeable that Thomson liked the ‘shoulder seasons’ best. Earliest spring and late autumn reflected his palette and temperament. These times present obvious challenges to the outdoor artist.
In a recent spring (early May, 2016) we camped and canoed for a few days in Algonquin Park. Although the weather was pleasant and almost bug-free (it’s an art in itself to beat the black-fly hatch-out, usually second week in May), the chill air and water made us wonder how Thomson was able to paint in similar conditions. Exposed fingers quickly were numbed; small-motor muscle control and dexterity were impaired by the chill. To have picked up a brush, let alone focus on painting, would have distracted from the simpler concern of trying to keep hands warm.
Similarly on late fall Algonquin canoe trips, a pair of high-tech neoprene gloves seems appropriate to ward off the chill.
Yet quite a number of Tom Thomson’s sketches depict snow and ice in the bush or waterways.
It’s wonderful how he could create these sketches amid the oft-choatic conditions of a rough wilderness camp, not to mention hand-numbing environmental conditions.
I would assert, too, that these ‘sketches’ were not quickly dashed-off in moments of bright inspiration. Rather, they are the products of prolonged and intense observation. Tips of icebergs, so-to-speak. Results of hours and days of collar-up, hand-numbing, dogged, apparently passive observation and experience, mysterious and unfathomable to the ‘normal’ uninitiate.
It can be succinctly stated that Tom Thomson, in his five or so years of seasonal residency in the Park, visited most of Algonquin’s approximate 3,000 square-miles via canoe or on foot. He paddled the lakes, rivers, creeks, wetlands in all their variety, and hiked the portages and look-out trails.
He did not arrive there as a greenhorn, but with extensive on-the-water experience from his youthful years growing up on the shore of a Great Lake. ‘Messin’ with boats’ is something he learned early in life (particularly small sailboats). By the time he first visited Algonquin in 1912, he’d already developed a tough-minded artistic sensibility that would see him through inevitable rough times.
Tom did venture beyond the Park’s boundaries. For instance, we know he regularly canoed to the village of South River – a challenging trip through the full spectrum of Algonquin land and water – to obtain artist’s supplies.
In 1912, with typical youthful bravado, he and William Broadhead embarked on a major canoe expedition down the Mississagi River in Northern Ontario.
However, Tom Thomson cleaved close to Algonquin Park thereafter (not withstanding a little mid-life restlessness). And I believe the Park would’ve stood him in good stead through the rest of a long life – if such had been his lot. For, truth be told, few places on Earth can match Algonquin as a canoeist’s destination and as a place allowing contact with natural wilderness and its wild inhabitants.
In addition to much of Algonquin, I have canoed Lake Superior’s North Shore, Pukaskwa, the White River, Temagami, the Cheepay and Albany rivers to James Bay, numerous smaller southern Ontario rivers in high-water conditions from headwaters to mouths (ie. Rouge, Humber, Credit…) and after a hiatus of about fifteen years during which I sailed the big waters of Lake Ontario, I returned to continue to explore Algonquin Park, now with my son Brant, and have found it to be largely unimpaired and unequalled.
True, other visitors will be encountered especially during peak seasons, but for me the Park’s human history and touch, add to its richness. There’s a lotta love gone by there. Let’s ‘feel that love.’
Those who seek remote isolation in ‘true’ wilderness often bank on the possibility of quick rescue if anything goes wrong, or are clients of some guided expedition. Too often, the extreme wilderness quest assumes the qualities of a recreational stunt. In all these cases, what is really experienced is faux wilderness.
The Park however is not scot-free of problems; some are long-standing issues that I believe Tom Thomson would’ve increasingly engaged with if he had lived longer.
Touching briefly on several:
*The impact of on-going logging in the Park and its legacy of logging roads.
*Increased visitation during certain times along with heightened expectations of ‘comfort.’ For instance, on recent October Thanksgiving weekends, cars were lined-up for almost thirty kilometres from the West Gate waiting to get in.
*Pressure to open more of the Park to hunting.
*Maintaining sources of funding and manpower to continue the huge task of managing Algonquin.
*Bringing new generations and cultures into the Algonquin Park ‘fold.’
* Respecting and increasingly re-incorporating indigenous Algonquin culture into the Park’s fabric.
Throughout all these issues, the land, water, and natural life of Algonquin should provide objective criteria against which human desires are accommodated or discouraged. A consensus has long emerged that aims to grant primacy to non-human life in the Park. Often times this means people have to be excluded, their activities constrained.
For instance, I don’t believe ‘sport hunting’ should have any place in Algonquin Park (currently it does, in certain times and places). The possible presence of even one hunter in a huge area of land seriously degrades the potential experiences of the majority of other visitors (not to mention placing additional burdens on already stressed-out wildlife populations) .
With hunting comes a kind of mechanized invasion of the backcountry – ATVs, chainsaws, motorboats, snowmobiles, roadways (how else does one extract a thousand-pound moose carcass?) – a state of affairs commonplace everywhere in Ontario save for a few ‘protected areas.’
I believe that a non-consumptive, non-predator-prey, relationship with wild nature is as authentic as any, and am prepared to argue the case on any grounds.
Hunting aside, perhaps the best solution to most of these issues resides in expansion of the Park’s area – whether through creation of additional ‘satellite’ parks, increased buffer zones, or boundary extensions.
After more than three decades of working in parks and dealing with the public (no, not in Algonquin), I can say that the success of these special, more-or-less protected, areas depends upon enforcement of pertinent regulations. You can have all the high-falutin’ ideas in the world, but once word of lax enforcement gets ’round, a free-for-all soon ensues and it’s then difficult to win back control.
Of course, ideally, enforcement should be invisible and client-based. But we often do need to heed the ‘experts,’ and allow those closely attuned to the land to speak-up and point the way.
Tom Thomson, of course, was one who knew the spirit of Algonquin Park intimately, almost since its inception. He did not create that spirit, but helped reveal it – making it OK for people to publicly celebrate what they had already privately delighted in.
Today, anyone contemplating stewardship of Algonquin Park would do well to study Tom Thomson’s life and work (as well as indigenous Algonquin knowledge). His vision was that of a true, archetypical environmentalist.
Having surveyed the academic issues and situated Tom Thomson within Canadian canoeing traditions, it’s appropriate now to look more attentively at the gear he used – how it affects my evaluation of his canoeing/camping cred – and for any insights it may provide into his life and times.
Tom Thomson’s canoe is at once the most visible and yet also controversial piece of gear. After examining photos and descriptions, I tend to agree with opinions expressed in forums on the website of the ‘Wooden Canoe Heritage Association,’ that Tom’s canoe was a 16′ Chestnut Cruiser – a wood and canvas model made in New Brunswick, about 1912. This model was the predecessor of the now very popular ‘Prospector’ design.
A great canoe; great design. Its construction materials have features still sought-after today: quiet passage through the water, nice thermal properties, reasonable repairability. In addition, Tom’s canoe appears to have cane seats and a stern-facing backrest in the bow (upgrades?).
However, wood and canvas canoes are fragile around rocks, and they do absorb water over time, adding to their initial heaviness. Tom’s canoe by 1917 – especially considering its alleged custom paint-job – probably exceeded 70lbs. This compares to as little as 40lbs for a modern, similar-sized high-tech kevlar/carbon craft.
A 16′ fiberglass Prospector canoe I used for decades, weighed about 65 lbs; my current canoe – an ex-rental 17′ Nova Craft Haida – weighs about 50lbs.
Tom Thomson’s canoe is kind of a Holy Grail today. Despite searches over the years, its whereabouts are unknown. It now seems to me that Tom may have owned and used more than one canoe while in Algonquin.
In a letter to Tom Harkness (executor of Thomson’s estate), dated August 6, 1917, Shannon Fraser, proprietor of Mowat Lodge where Thomson was headquartered, writes:
“I have seen the Rangers and they said the canoes [Tom’s] was worth $10.00 dollars a peace and they leak pretty bad they are Pretty old canoes and full of holes so they said that was all they are worth.”
This letter is quoted in Gregory Klages’ new book (“The Many Deaths of Tom Thomson,” 2016, Dundurn), but he does not comment on its significance with respect to Thomson’s canoe[s]. Yet, grammar and spelling aside, Fraser implies that Tom owned or had invested in a fleet of canoes at Canoe Lake. Perhaps this is connected to money Tom is rumoured to have lent Fraser to ‘buy canoes’ for Mowat Lodge.
My take is that Fraser deliberately down-played the canoes’ value so as to minimise his liability in the estate settlement. In general, this is not an uncommon situation when estates get messy – as Thomson’s did. It need not reflect too harshly on Fraser who seems to have been always on a thin edge financially. His comments do, however, add another rather unexamined mystery to Tom’s canoe inventory.
Tom Thomson’s canoe paddles are another essential piece of gear. They, too, are embroiled in controversy. How many paddles did he have? What role did they play in his fate? What happened to them?
I have pondered such questions from a canoeist’s perspective and, after reviewing the few available photos and contemporary testimony, have arrived at tentative conclusions.
First I will look closely at what information about the paddles themselves can be teased from available evidence.
This photo, dated 1912, appears to be the only one in existence that shows Tom with a paddle.
A previous photo, four back, shows a (the same?) paddle hand-grip near his right shoulder.
I believe the paddle to be similar to one I have in my own ‘collection.’ It dates from the 1940’s, perhaps much earlier. Note the curved handgrip and spline where shaft meets blade, similar to Tom’s (his paddle appears to have a round decal on upper blade). Total length is 59″ – perfect for a six-footer. Material is beech, and the overall dimensions make for a very well-balanced paddle.
Tom is reputed to have had a “favourite ash working paddle,” which was lost. This is quite possible, as ash paddles have been in wide use in Algonquin since the Park’s inception (see a selection of old ash paddles displayed in the Portage Store restaurant at Canoe Lake).
For example, the paddle pictured on the right is a 1940-50’s working ash paddle I found deep within Algonquin’s interior, and for which I subsequently traded with the MNR. These paddles were locally made, most likely by Avery & Sons of Whitney, Ontario (Algonquin East Gate), still a going concern today. The small maple paddle on the left is labelled as an Avery, and the design similarities are apparent. Ash paddles are noted for their strength and flexibility.
How many paddles did Tom Thomson own? Quite a selection, I believe – to go with the several canoes he apparently owned at Mowat Lodge.
When canoeing himself, the preponderance of evidence convinces me that he routinely carried two paddles, as per standard practice. In this, I’m in agreement with Gregory Klages who, based upon on-the-spot letters from Shannon Fraser, concludes that Thomson usually carried only two paddles (pp 230-2). Additionally, a third paddle would obviously have been an unnecessary encumbrance on portages.
However, Klages (spoiler alert) inadvertently undermines his central thesis which supports the official finding that Tom Thomson’s death was caused by ‘accidental drowning’ (p234 etc).
Because – and again from my canoeist’s viewpoint – the number and disposition of Tom’s paddles raises serious implications with respect to his subsequent fate.
To wit: his routine when preparing to portage would have been thus:
1. Step out from the canoe at the landing.
2. Lift out accessible packs to lighten the canoe.
3. Haul the canoe further out of the water and remove remaining gear.
4. Rig the canoe for carrying by tying the two paddles inside to form a rudimentary shoulder yoke.
He would then be ready to proceed, making one or more trips depending on load (ie. length of trip).
At no point would Tom have been out on the water with paddles already tied-in for portaging (would’ve interfered with pack placement and accessibility of spare paddle). The existent photos of Tom on the lake in his canoe, clearly show this to be the case.
Tom was last seen alive on July 8, 1917. His(?) canoe was reported floating upside down later that same day, but apparently was not recovered until July 10. His body was found, also floating, on July 16. Both canoe and body were found in the deep open waters of northwest Canoe Lake.
The obvious question is, how did Tom Thomson’s canoe and body relocate from a putative portage, to deep water? To the best of my knowledge, there are no existing portages in the vicinity of Canoe Lake where he was found. The closest trail – a largely abandoned path at Whiskey Jack Creek – does not alter this scenario.
If Tom had slipped on a portage (say, on the rocky ‘official’ portage into Gill Lake), how did his canoe end up so quickly back out on the lake? How could he have paddled there, perhaps injured, when both paddles were apparently found lashed in the canoe? Even if Tom did utilise a third ‘padding paddle,’ this does not change the ‘forensic scholarly’ finding that he was preparing to portage and thus was off the water.
To summarize the paddle situation: two paddles, tied in Tom’s canoe floating out on Canoe Lake, don’t support the official verdict of death by accidental drowning. Instead, they raise more questions. The probability of a long-suspected ‘third-party’ involvement, is strengthened in this scenario. And for now,that’s as far as I’ll go along those lines.
Suffice to say that, the official version of Tom Thomson’s death does not square with important physical evidence reported in the immediate aftermath.
Leaving aside such constraints for now, more mundane but nonetheless germane information about Tom’s other canoeing gear can be gleaned from photos and first-hand accounts. I touch on his artist’s tools in later Log entries.
Tom’s pack was a traditional canvas canoe pack, little-changed for the past century and identical to my 1960’s Woods #1 Special pictured above. Recent cheap imported versions of these ‘Made in Canada’ originals, are not nearly as durable.
A distinctive feature of this pack is the attached short ‘tump’strap. You don’t see these used much now, but they were required in Tom’s day, when loads were heavier and necks were stronger. He also carried a tarp (rubber?) rolled up in a long standalone tump-line, as used in the following photo:
While these old canvas packs had great durability, they were not inherently waterproof and were available in a limited range of sizes. For these reasons, they have been supplanted to a large degree by plastic packs which even permit a watertight closure, allowing the pack to float in case of upset.
However, the new plastic packs are susceptible to puncture and I’d bet that, unlike the old canvas packs, few will be around fifty years from now.
Perhaps the last large item of Tom’s camping/canoeing gear is his tent. It was a classic ‘A-frame.’ Versatile, easy to pitch; with pegs, poles, and often bedding cut from surrounding forest. Materials were light canvas (poplin) and rubber ground-cloth. Real luxury would’ve been some kind of bug screen combined with the Hudson Bay blanket(s) Tom reportedly used.
Although potentially more weighty and less waterproof compared to modern designs, the great utility (four seasons) of the old A-frame has such undiminished desirability for ‘workplace’ camping, that Rutstrum developed and marketed his own adaptable version which still commands a niche following today.
Before considering what foods Tom brought while canoeing, I’ll look at a couple of smaller items in his kit.
Tom carried a knife that, I believe, was used primarily for filleting fish and other culinary endeavors. Judging from the photo – the only one I’m aware of that shows his knife – I’m undecided as to whether it reveals a heavy ‘tang’ (ie. Bowie style) or is simply a sheathed, long-handled filleting knife. In any case, in Tom’s time there was a limited selection available. Quite likely his knife was made in Sheffield, England by Charles Ibbotson&Co. (ie.’Early Bird’), comparable to these in my ‘collection:’
If you ask an old woodsman what tool he’d choose if allowed to take only one into the wilderness, I bet he’d say, “axe.” With an axe a skilled person can create shelter, access wild food, defend themselves, and even shave. It is, however, important to distinguish between an axe and a hatchet. The latter (small head, handle 1′ or less) is an inefficient, dangerous tool (miss a stroke with an axe, most likely blade hits ground; miss with a hatchet, blade more readily strikes leg or hand).
Tom Thomson carried an axe in the bush, and although I’ve not been able to locate any photos of it, I believe it probably was of the ‘Hudson Bay’ style. This design features a relatively broad blade-edge combined with smaller and hence lighter poll. Yes, I happen to have an example in my collection – a “Genuine Norlund” from mid 1960’s Canadian Tire:
In her 2012 book about Algonquin Park’s Smoke Lake, Gaye I. Clemson quotes Esther Keyser who established a canoe-trip business in the Park in the 1930’s: “I was proficient with the Hudson Bay axe…” indicating perhaps early widespread usage of this axe design in Algonquin.
Given the importance of an axe in any canoeist’s kit of Tom’s time, it’s all the more puzzling that he left his on the dock when departing on what turned out to be his final trip (as per Robinson’s July 1917 Journal entry).
To me this indicates that Tom was embarking on a quick errand, with the intention of returning shortly to complete his interrupted(?) packing for a longer excursion.
In addition to the axe he also left “three old tin pails” on the dock – no doubt a good part of his cooking gear, further reinforcing my impression that he was intending to be gone only briefly.
The apparent brevity and errand-like quality of Tom’s initial departure that day, July 8/17, further erodes the official version of events that claims he was preparing to portage, fell, struck his head, and subsequently accidently drowned.
An item of his kit not accounted for in Tom’s ensuing estate but that nonetheless was central to his mode of procedure, is his reflector-oven. This kind of folding oven, widely relied on by ‘workplace’ canoeists, no doubt allowed Tom to live partly off the country through his fishing.
Besides fish, Tom’s bush diet appears to have been high in carbs. His fondness for maple syrup and jam is well illustrated in his food lists and related documents. For instance, Mark Robinson noted that “1 gal can maple syrup, 1.5lbs tin of jam” were recovered from his empty canoe (July 1917). And Tom himself provided this grubstake in a letter dated May 8, 1917 (Addison/Harwood, 1975, pp 62-3):
“I have all the supplies including 1 gallon maple syrup pail of jam plenty bacon, potatoes, Bread, tea, sugar, all kinds canned stuff…”
These kinds of foods – typical for the time among working wilderness travellers – have important implications when trying to understand and evaluate Tom Thomson’s accomplishments as canoeist/ camper.
For instance, Tom’s favourite ‘gallon of maple syrup’ would’ve weighed almost 15 lbs. In comparison I’ve calculated that a similar weight of modern freeze-dried food such as I routinely use now on canoe trips, would provide three squares per day for two people for ten days, and these would be gourmet meals, simply prepared. All the rest of Tom’s foods were similarly cumbersome, although certainly sustaining.
Have you ever actually tried to prepare hot meals over an open wood-fire in wilderness conditions? And in all weather conditions? Fishing for food sounds great, but the mess and tedious prep requirements can quickly overwhelm the dilettante until he / she hightails it back to the Portage Store Restaurant, where a nice Tom Thomson Burger can be ordered.
The fact is, to successfully use Tom’s canoeing / camping tools and techniques much beyond a weekend novelty, requires skill of a very high order. That he was able to also create art of the highest caliber, attests further to his extraordinary accomplishments.
Before reviewing his canoeing / camping equipment and exploits, it’s best to touch on Canadian canoeing traditions to see where Tom Thomson fits.
The oldest canoe tradition is that bequeathed by Aboriginal Peoples. Modern Canadian canoes are but minor variants of the original birch-bark craft. These earliest canoes (dating from prehistory) functioned as tools of survival, providing transportation to seasonal territories for food-gathering etc. I trust, however, that their creators and first paddlers found much unexplainable joy when using these near-perfect craft.
As European settlers (‘colonizers’) arrived, they quickly adopted some of the Aboriginal tools of wilderness life, and the original survival value of canoe travel remained paramount. Personally, based upon my own experience with Native people, I feel that this initial transaction among Aboriginals and Europeans – the gift of the canoe – was a largely positive and voluntary one, both ways, at least between individuals.
Europeans did bring a more industrial and restless edge to canoe travel in North America. The canoe became even more of a workhorse, bringing timber surveyors (‘cruisers’), land surveyors, prospectors, and retail merchants deep into the wilderness. As villages became established, brigades of skilled canoeists (comprised often of Metis) continued to make extensive forays into the hinterlands. I believe that quite a few of these canoeists actually loved this arduous endeavor, and devoted their lives to it with fierce joy (‘Voyagers,’ etc).
This original utilitarian canoeing acquired recreational overtones as leisure-time became available. It morphed into the several sub-sets of activity that define ‘canoeing’ today.
Perhaps Calvin Rutstrum (1895-1982; in books such as “The New Way of the Wilderness,” 1958) best straddled the transition from survival-based canoeing to a more recreational focus. He, along with others such as Bill Riviere (d.2005; “Pole, Paddle, and Portage,” 1965) and Stewart Edward White (1873-1946; “The Forest,” 1903) introduced new generations of recreational canoeists to the old tried and true canoeing ethos, steeped in ‘workplace’ rigor.
This ‘canoeing as a workplace’ as taught by Rutstrum, stressed the ability to travel far, for long periods of time through all weather, into remote wilderness. Self-sufficency was paramount. If things went wrong, quick rescue was not anticipated. The canoeist eventually returned to ‘civilization’ with ‘the goods,’ – be it some personal achievement or something with more commercial flavour.
On the other side of the coin are the whitewater thrill-seekers and sport canoeists. Unlike the Rutstrum school of paddlers who largely view whitewater as an obstacle to avoid, today’s sport canoeists seek it out and make it the focus of their excursions. Perhaps Canadian author (ie. “Path of the Paddle,” 1980) and film-maker Bill Mason (1929-88) best exemplifies this newer school.
Technical whitewater paddling manoeuvres such as ‘back-ferry,’ ‘playing the eddies,’ etc. were not consciously practiced by the old-schoolers. Their main tactic, when forced to run rapids, was to paddle quickly forward to maintain steerage-way and thus dodge obstacles.
Of course,there are many nuances within the canoeing spectrum but I think it’s safe to say, without delving further into canoeing history, that Tom Thomson fits comfortably within the Rutstrum ‘workplace’ tradition of wilderness travel.
That’s not to say that Tom was a stranger to whitewater. For instance, in the summer of 1916 he worked as a fire-ranger with Ed Godin in Algonquin’s north and eastern areas; as Silcox writes:
“They travelled the Petawawa River… and Thomson again followed and painted part of the Booth Company’s timber drive along the Petawawa.” (p 58)
The Petawawa is known as a premier whitewater river, with all grades of rapids and lengthy, very challenging stretches. George Drought says the Petawawa: “continues to provide some of the best whitewater canoeing in the country” (“Petawawa River Whitewater Guide,” FOAP, 2013, p 6). It seems likely that Thomson was very familiar with and at least dappled in all of this river’s rapids.
But again, Tom’s intent was ‘workplace oriented,’ with his main focus on fire-ranging duties, or corralling subjects fit for his brushes.
Modern art critics and academics have fairly uniformly tended to downplay the ‘skilled woodsman’ aspect of Tom Thomson. They have apparently seen it as getting in the way of a true, demythologized evaluation of his art. Answering to egalitarian times, they have wanted to ‘normalize’ Tom as far as possible: His canoeing was ordinary; the wilderness he traveled, not so wild.
As an example I suggest reading Harold Town’s 1977 ‘Introduction’ to his major Thomson book, “The Silence and the Storm.” In that same book Town’s co-author, David Silcox, also makes disparaging remarks in a similar vein, though to a lesser degree. Very recently, Gregory Klages in his 2016 book “The Many Deaths of Tom Thomson,” continues the trend, somewhat muted, but with clear intent; he writes:
“Thomson has been characterized as a deft outdoorsman with natural skill at painting a uniquely distinctive Canadian environment that he knew well. This is the image that Thomson’s friends and supporters worked to advance after his death, and that was integral to the rise of his reputation. If Thomson died as a result of a canoeing accident on a calm lake in the middle of the day, this image would be significantly destabilized.” (pp 236-7).
Although I certainly agree with constructing a clear-eyed overview of Tom Thomson, from my perspective as a seasoned wilderness canoeist, I think it’s important to more closely investigate both the level of his bush skills and their relationship to the artistic achievements that flowed from them, rooted in his time and place.
By comparing wilderness canoe equipment/methods, circa Thomson’s time (early 1900’s), with modern gear and turning an experienced eye on Thomson’s on-the-water accomplishments, with consideration of Algonquin Park itself, a more grounded sense can be had of his woodsman’s expertise or lack thereof.
In the process of doing so, I have gained other insights, obliquely, into Tom Thomson’s life and art, and share these where appropriate within this Log.
Tom’s story continues to evolve – thanks partly to new efforts by on-line commentators such as @TTLastSpring.
I believe more insights, more material, and more truth is out there waiting to be had by those intent on finding it.