The Bruce Beckons by W. Sherwood Fox

Author:W. Sherwood Fox [Fox, William Sherwood]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Toronto Press
Published: 1952-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

STILL WATERS

On two counts it is hard for anyone who has once seen Spring Creek—the Spring Creek we crossed north of Stokes Bay on our way to Tobermory—to forget its clear waters and its wild woodland setting. In the first place, its apparent promise of full creels of speckled trout makes one hanker for the excuse to come back to it soon and try one’s luck. In the second place, its local name, Rattlesnake Creek, rouses in strangers an odd curiosity to explore the course of the stream and see if the name really fits. That it does fit I proved beyond cavil a quarter of a century ago: on my very first tramp up the swampy flats, where the creek empties into Middle Boat Cove, I came upon no less than four Little Swamp Rattlesnakes, or Massasaugas, in the space of ten minutes. The people of the region have named the stream most aptly.

Steve Bradley of Stokes Bay called himself a farmer; like many of his neighbours on the land he also fished at sundry times, frequently working out of Boat Coves. But his farm, I fear, was chiefly a blind: he found this sheltered little haven a better place in which to carry on his private avocation, a sideline which for success required a scene quite “exempt from public haunt.” For Bradley, Boat Coves was perfect. The focus of his labours here was a spring of pure, cold water bubbling out of the rocky bank of the valley a short distance up the Creek. It was like an ancient stronghold in that it was defended, and that doubly: by a dense belt of cedars, and, from spring to early fall, by an unseen body of living guardians. The latter defence was none other than the host of Massasaugas that infested—and still infests—the approaches to the concealed woodland fastness. Though a rabble this force was as good as an ordered army.

In the midst of the cedars Steve built him a still. A crude affair it was, a curious complex of tubes and coils and ancient tin containers rescued from sundry junk-heaps, but nevertheless a contraption which, thanks to the steady flow of cold spring waters and the direction of its ingenious maker, did well the work it was intended to do. Later, Bradley built a log shanty near the mouth of the creek; the remains of its foundation are still to be seen. This contained several small rooms to serve as living quarters and—we venture to guess—temporary storage space. Bradley’s husky daughter, Mag, was installed as chatelaine of the establishment.

That Mag was thus made an accomplice in crime never entered Steve’s one-track mind; a companion in trouble, perhaps, but nothing worse. The truth is that Steve fancied himself a rather brave fellow, one of the few who have spunk enough to resist a most objectionable regimentation of society. He was really a bold exponent of free enterprise, one with the fine qualification of having enough sporting instinct to accept high risks for higher profits.

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