Algonquin Park

I decided that Bev needed to keep her feet on the ground for a while after the accident. She was still recovering, easily confused, apt to forget circumstances and words from time to time. She’d had a head injury, after all, and it was going to take years to come back from that.

Her doctor told her that it was safe for her to fly, but I begged to differ. A co-worker had suffered a severe head injury and the surgeon had told him that he was not cleared to either go underground or fly for twelve months after the incident, owing to the fact that he’d bled between his skull and brain. There was a serious concern of blood clots dislodging and causing a stroke, so he had to take the time for the clot to dissipate and be reabsorbed by the body. Bev had the same issue, an intercranial hemorrhage and resulting scab inside the skull. Highly precautionary, but what’s good for the gander happens to be good for the goose, too.

We’d always discussed taking some sort of resort vacation within Ontario for a while by then, so this seemed the year for it. I searched the internet for such a resort. There were more of them than I’d expected. Yes, more than a few of them were little more than cabins in the woods, but there were a lot of actual resorts, where meals were included. Most of the posh ones were in and around Wasaga and the Muskokas.

One in particular caught my eye. No wi-fi, no cell service. Each cabin had a dedicated canoe. There were boxed lunches for lengthy hikes available upon request. And their “off season” was the first two weeks of September, a slightly lower period of patronage between Labour Day and the expected peak period of leaf colour change. Killarney Lodge in Algonquin Park. There was a cabin available for the period I checked for, our usual vacation slot that happened to coincide with their “cheaper” off season. Sold. I booked it.

We drove to North Bay the night before to ensure that we’d make the most of our first day in the Park, where we, or more specifically I, had a scare. I had a beet and kale salad with my meal that did not agree with me. It gave me the runs and I was shocked to see the toilet bowl filled with what looked like blood. I was a little weak, too. Maybe more than a little weak. I was instantly terrified. I thought I was going to begin my holiday in a hospital in North Bay, having emergency rectal surgery. I informed Bev of my impending medical emergency.

“You had a beet salad,” she reminded me.

“Okay,” I said, somewhat put at ease. That would explain the red. I decided to wait a couple minutes to see if it was indeed diarrhea and not a fatal rectal hemorrhage. We gave me the all clear a half hour later, the red reduced to a more natural colour, the cramps reduced to only slight discomfort, and then nothing at all.

The next day was less panic ridden. It was a pleasant morning. Cool. Morning dew. A very thin coating of shad flies. The heat of the day gathered as the sun rose and we were on our way. We turned onto scenic Highway 60, leaving the monotonous speed of the divided highway behind, stopping in Huntsville for a couple hours to stroll its streets and picking up some Christmas ornaments in the Christmas Store there. I was especially pleased to find the place. We’d been buying intricate glass ornaments that are evocative of the trips we’ve been on. Nothing as kitschy or crass as those with “Ottawa 2012,” or some moose sitting in an outhouse with “Muskoka” written over the open door. More like a lighthouse for New Brunswick, a lobster for Halifax, the Bonhomme for Quebec City. I’d also begun buying glass Christmas ornaments for my nephews, much as my Uncle Derek had been buying ornaments for his nephews and nieces for years. One ought to pick up such wonderful traditions.
The road to Killarny Lodge is a beautiful drive. It rolls and weaves over hills and around lakes and rock cliffs and through little holiday towns, until it leaves almost all trace of humanity behind, with only the rolling hills and lakes and the occasional campground or visitor centre along its length.

We came upon the lodge at lunch. Signs informed us of its impending approach. Then we saw it, a little peninsula jutting out into the Lake of Two Rivers. We thread our way down its length, parking outside the reception and dining cabin. All cabins were of a sort, the logs painted black, the cement between them brightly white. Conifers reached out over the roofs and road, alike. Needles lay about everywhere. Piles of them were gathered in small mounds for collecting. Squirrels chittered. Birds darted here and there. Branches and needles and leaves rustled. We checked in, informed that we were a little early to take possession of our cabin, but were welcome to sit for lunch and use their facilities as we saw fit until we did.

We ate too much. We always ate too much. In our defense, they seduced us with gloriously good food. We didn’t hike too much, Bev tired quickly then, but we did a couple of the short and easy trails along the length of Highway 60. If you go, and if you opt to choose to hike the self-guided tour trails, pick up a pamphlet at the head of the trail. There are numbered posts along the way, each a marker for a passage in the pamphlet. We did take our canoe out each and every day, where we honed our paddling skills and were able to finally steer the craft right, that in itself making the trip worthwhile. We also went for a swim. Or I did. Bev dunked and waded. We mostly hung out at our cabin after a short drive in one direction of the other, where we stopped in here and there along the way at portage and trading post stores and art galleries and the Park Visitor’s Centre. Hours were spent at the cabin, reading or feeding the chipmunks and squirrels and blue jays peanuts. More hours were spent in the Activity Cabin, where teas and coffees and puzzles and books were always in abundance. Bev spent the latter afternoon puzzling over a puzzle, completing it on our last full day.

Bev declared the vacation perfect. Just what she needed. So did I.

Bev also told me she saw a British guy who looked like Doctor Who. I’d seen a British gent too, an older man, tall and a little stooped and looking decidedly unlike Doctor Who. I told her I didn’t think it was anyone who’d played Doctor Who, or looked anything like any of the gents who’d played the gent. And then, as we sat for an early lunch, I looked over at the gent sitting across the space. And there he was. Matt Smith. In the flesh. I was momentarily starstruck. There he was! Doctor Who! I looked again. I almost stood. I settled my ass back down. Only to lift it off my seat again a little. I told Bev I had to go over. And I did.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Are you Matt Smith?”

He smiled indulgently. “Yes, I am,” he said. This must happen to him a lot.

I told him that I’d watched the show since 1975 and I loved what he’d done with the character. I also told him that my favourite episode of his was “Vincent and the Doctor,” and why. It’s a tale about the time traveler meeting Vincent van Gogh, and coming face to face with Van Gogh’s demons, one literal, the other psychological, and how the Doctor tries to save him by bringing him to our present to show him how beloved he and his paintings are, how important he is. It’s an emotionally charged scene that moved me. The Doctor failed to save Vincent. Vincent still committed suicide.

I discovered that Matt had been in Toronto for the film festival, to present his directorial debut. He and his girlfriend were spending a couple days in Algonquin to enjoy the Canadian landscape. I begged his forgiveness for bothering him and left them in peace, a mild fantasy of he and I striking up a friendship rolling cinematically in my head. A silly, childish wish. It was not to be. They left that day, less than an hour later.

His girlfriend was oddly familiar, too. I kept looking at her, trying to place her, telling myself how silly that exercise was as I did it. She was English. From England. How could I possibly know her? But I did. She was Lily James. Lady Rose on Downton Abbey.