The Legend of Sundial Hill

 A legend can be a mythical tale or it can simply be a story that sounds like history, but is not authenticated.

Let me tell you the legend of the hill that is my home. It has been home to my family and many other animal families for countless generations. My name is Fox.  The early people who lived below the hill called me mewaagosh. The ancient Romans called me volpes and so do scientists today.  They say that I am cunning, but I take more pride in my appearance- my red coat and my long, bushy tail. My other claim is that of being a storyteller like my father and grandfathers before him. There have been many stories to tell, stories of brave deeds or bad storms, of great hunts and seasons of starvation or even great tales of romance.

If these sound more like human than animal stories, it is because the animals that made their homes on this hill were not the kind who needed to live in the wilderness of the deep forest. We who live here can happily exist close to the community of humans whose actions we watch and tell stories about.

The hill dwellers were fairly small animals such as rabbits,

either the small furry-tailed bunnies or the big-footed jackrabbits. The people called them waabooz. There were racoons with their bandit masks, skunks zhigaag with their snow white stripes against the coal black of their fur coat. There might be a buck deer waawaashkeshi flaunting his magnificent rack of antlers followed meekly by his shy and gentle doe with a spindly legged fawn cowering at her side. Occasionally, a moose might wander onto the grassy slope of the hill from his swampy pasture near the lake.

The hill itself is more of a flat ridge rising above the village south of it and overlooking the long, narrow lake, which is part of a chain of lakes and rivers that formed a great waterway route through a huge area of the country. The hill and the trees that studded it made an ideal vantage point for lookouts from the village, posted there to watch the waterway for visitors or intruders. They might be welcome visitors from other villages arriving for trade or for the annual festival of games and competitions that were held near the Narrows where the long, shallow lake rushes into the much larger and deeper lake to the south. These were happy events but the watchers on the hill always had to be on their guard for the arrival of more threatening travelers. It was one of my ancestors, aanikoobijigan who got to tell the story of one of the most historically significant arrivals of all, that of Samuel de Champlain.

Once upon a long, long time ago, a small community of people had established their village on the sandy shore of a lake they called Couchiching, lake of many winds.

These early people lived together amicably, in harmony with nature and their neighbouring tribes who lived on the islands and the nearby lakeshores, but they were always alert and watchful for intruders. They knew little of what lay beyond their community, even less about what warlike tribes might live in the distance.

They knew nothing at all about a wider world, of great oceans, ancient civilizations, of Marco Polo’s search for the Silk Road or that, two hundred years later, Columbus had found the New World, of which they were a part. These people of the lake and the woods had never heard of the Vikings, the Norman conquest, or the Spanish Armada, nor could they ever have imagined the grandeur and the elegance of the first Elizabethan Age, when William Shakespeare himself was writing his plays and acting them out on the stage of the Globe Theatre in London.

That was a time and a place of history and romance, of adventure and intrigue, of political maneuvers and skullduggery. Adventurous sea captains, Sir Frances Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh plied the far off seas and vied with each other to win the favour of the woman known as ‘the Virgin Queen’.  Neither the courtly gesture of spreading his cloak to allow her to walk dry shod over a puddle, nor the dubious value of introducing tobacco to the modern world seemed to gain those gentlemen what they yearned for.

Queen Elizabeth I, maintained her independence to the end of her reign. It was during the year of her death that a young cartographer in France was making preparations for his first voyage to the New World in order to explore and chart his journeys of discovery. His name was Samuel de Champlain.

Year after year the old men had cautioned and prophesied that strangers would come and threaten their peaceful lakeshore existence. They insisted that watchers must be posted. The young men chafed at the duty, complained that nothing had ever happened and probably never would. They scoffed in secret at the old prophecies but they obeyed, climbed the trees and kept watch. From this vantage point, the Watchers could see not only the vista of the long narrow lake which led further north into the vast forests and on westward into ever larger bodies of water but looking southwards, the lake flowed south past the ancient fishing weirs through the fast-flowing waters of the Narrows into the enormous lake to the south.

For a long time, they saw what they were used to, canoes that were light to lift and easy to paddle.   Sometimes there were larger craft that carried more travelers. Nothing threatening came from the north but one day, the unthinkable happened!

The watchers saw boats arriving, boats unlike any they had seen, bigger than any they had seen before, bringing with them strangers to the land and bringing great changes to the people of the forest.

We animals can live near humans with very little friction. We can live our parallel lives without intruding on each other while we observe the other’s actions and behavior. We can watch a man work and know what he is doing. We can hear his words and sometimes even understand their meaning. Dogs seem to be very good at that, but they are pets which probably makes a difference. So as animals, we can see what humans do but not why they are doing it. Not even the most cunning of foxes can tell what a person is thinking. He certainly cannot imagine what that person believes.

So astonished were we with the arrival if these intruders that it never occurred to us to wonder why they had come. Perhaps our human neighbours, those early people living simply by the lake, were even more astonished, more fearful than we who could vanish into a den or a rabbit warren or into the friendly forest all around us.

Who were these intruders with their pale skinned faces, looking faintly pink even after their long journey. They wore strange looking garments, even on their heads and arrived in strange boats, accompanied and guided by swarthy skinned paddlers who looked like our own people but spoke in a different but similar tongue. What we could hear of the intruders speaking to each other was a whiney gibberish. Sometimes we thought we knew what they were saying when they pointed to us and said words like le renard for me and le lapin for a rabbit. They soon learned to avoid la mouffette lest he spray his odeur in their direction. 

Champlain and his companions did not leave for quite a long time. The smaller canoes scurried around the lake and seemed to be bringing information with which he was constantly making notes and drawing what may have been maps and charts. 

The natives who came with Champlain managed to communicate with those who lived here and through them, he was constantly asking questions about their lives, their food, and their activities. He did not appear to be threatening them, merely learning about them and writing it in his notes. Strange but harmless as he seemed, still the watchers on the hill kept watch.

There were other companions on the voyage but they kept to themselves and were not easy to observe. They were of various ages with skin an even paler shade, perhaps because they rarely left the larger boat. They wore their hair cut short but they were not all dark haired like the boatmen. Some were already grey haired, one or two quite fair and one had hair as red as my own red fox coat. These men wore long, black robes that covered them from neck to heel. At their side, each wore a string of black beads which they never stopped counting. As they counted, they murmured and when they had completed the circle, they kissed the cross that marked the end. When speaking to the boatmen, these men spoke their language but when speaking to each other they spoke in a very different tongue, they spent a lot of time on their knees, not talking to each other but chanting in a sing song tone and using that language of which we were only ever able to hear ‘pater noster’ and ‘Ave Maria’. I will have to leave it to another story teller to tell you who they were and how they had come to do their work among the Hurons. 

When Samuel de Champlain was satisfied with his explorations and his investigations, he packed up his notes and he and his companions sailed away. We hill animals and our human neighbours hoped it was the end. We might have known it was only the beginning.

When Champlain and his companions were gone, there was a great sense of relief both in the village and on the hill. Everyone expected life to go back to normal but it never did. There remained a feeling of unease that made the young men keep a sharper watch from the trees and made the old men fear for the future. Even the animals were sometimes skittish with the humans they had always ignored. There was a feeling that change was coming and indeed, change did come. It took years, even centuries but their lives were never to be the same.

It started as a trickle, a few settlers who arrived by boat. These were bigger boats than any seen before, that came along the shores of the big lake that became Lake Simcoe. These early settlers wanted land where they could farm and be self-sufficient. They had no intention of displacing those who lived there.

If the American dream was to offer safety and solace to ‘…your tired, your poor… the homeless, tempest-tossed’; the Canadian approach was to challenge the courageous and the hardy to cope with and endure its harsh climate and its even harsher Pre-Cambrian Shield landscape.

With the passing of time, life in Canada became less of an adventurous gamble and more of an exciting life choice as settlements grew into villages and then into towns and cities. When the railroad came into being people were able to travel long distances. They could load all their goods and chattels, their possessions and pianos on a ship from England to Quebec City and move it by train to whatever place of residence they might choose.

Being on the main railway line as well as on the lake made our village a most attractive spot to build a town. It seemed a matter of no great significance to convince the earlier inhabitants to move their homes and possessions to the east side of the lake, where they would not be disturbed as the town was developed. Town planning began with a wide main street which started at the lake and ran west into the green and pleasant land in that direction.

As the years passed, the town prospered and grew but the link between town and hill withered and died. The townspeople were afraid of the animals. They called them by the English names, fox and rabbit and deer, the names we use today and considered them varmints or fodder for the stew pot. They felt unthreatened and saw no need to post watchers on the hill. So, for a long time the hill stood undisturbed by humans.  The animals were content and lived on, unaware of the events that went on in the rest of the world. They knew nothing of the Great War, the ‘war to end all wars’ or the Depression, nor the Second World War with its ominous finale.

What did attract their attention was the arrival of the motor car. Here was a real threat to small animals who were accustomed to making their way hither and yon without care. As automobiles became more plentiful and popular, the next step was to develop roads and highways to speed the cars out of the confines of the city and bring them north to enjoy the rural beauty of what became ‘Cottage Country’. The shy creatures lived in terror of the speeding wheeled monsters. In time they figured out that if they stayed on the hill or the grassy slope below it, they would be safe. Then something worse happened.

With so many cars heading north and so many travelers on the road it became obvious that there was a need, or at least a market, for a place where drivers and their passengers could stop for a meal along the way. The Carter family, who owned one of the most popular restaurants downtown, decided to open such an establishment. After careful searching, it was decided that the perfect spot, with the easiest access and an outstanding view, was the very hill of this story. It took some time to get through the paper work of purchasing and licensing and eventually building so the animals had some reprieve but in the end their peace and quiet were lost in the uproar of construction and the business became the ‘Sundial’.

Why call it Sundial? Why choose that name for a restaurant? No one has offered an explanation but if we were to stand on the hill from dawn to sunset, we would see, in the early morning, the faintest glow of light at the horizon over the lake and moments later the scarlet ball of the sun appears to rise out of the water, turns into a golden yellow, and arches through the sky. From the hill you can follow the sun’s whole day’s journey till it sinks into a golden glow in the western sky.   If ever there were a perfect place to tell the time by sundial, this must be the place.

At first it was just a restaurant, a pleasant stopping place for travelers to get a good meal while enjoying a spectacular view. Some people did not want to break their journey with a leisurely meal so an addition was built to allow Colonel Sanders to offer his well known K Kentucky Fried Chicken to folks in a hurry.  Over time, other additions and improvements were made so the Sundial became a popular venue for parties, wedding receptions and other elegant affairs. Eventually a motel completed the Sundial complex.

For decades the Sundial was a famous landmark for Orillia. So many travelers from all over the province made it a regular stop on their way to their cottage, that whenever a person said he was from Orillia, he would very often be greeted with the remark that the other person knew Orillia because they, or their parents, or someone they knew, always stopped at the Sundial.

The times moved on. The highway north grew ever wider and busier.  Meanwhile, ill health and the death of Mr. Veldon Carter led to a change of ownership for the Sundial Restaurant. The new owners, Warren and Mary Doner, upgraded with the addition of a motel and swimming pool and the ‘new Sundial Motor Hotel’ gained fame for ‘Northern Hospitality’ for quite some time.

Sad to say, fire is no respecter of fame. The Sundial fell on hard times and stood ugly and abandoned for a few years.

Once upon a not-so-long time ago, a young man came to the hill with a dream. He wanted to build a comfortable home for people who had retired or who were healthy enough to live an independent life without the burdens of house and garden.

It was to be a place where they could come and go as they chose, participate in group activities or not, as they would choose, all of this against a backdrop of carefully chosen and trained staff ‘to support your independence.’

This man chose to build on the hill familiar to our story. He built a handsome building with all the amenities and safety features required.  Wisely, he chose the name ‘Sundial’, a familiar name almost synonymous with Orillia, and added the name ‘Lakeview’ to emphasize the view.

So now there is a whole new set of watchers from the hill. From their own suite some can watch the sunrise as each new day begins. Others can see the rosy glow as the afternoon draws to a close.

From the lounge, the balcony and the patio, everyone can share the view whether they choose to watch the flashing red lights of a police chase on the highway or the serenity of a rainbow over the lake. More than anything else, the watchers spend time watching the weather and the panorama of the changing seasons.

It starts with the new year, after the early skins of ice have appeared and disappeared a few times. 

Then the winter cold sets in, the ice thickens and hardens till it can hold the weight of snowmobiles and even trucks. Fishing huts spring up here and there over the surface and the lake becomes a vast winter playground for people in warm, brightly coloured cold-weather gear. The winter games fill the frigid days of January and February. Then, in March, the sun seems warmer and the little fish huts disappear. The playground empties and the fun is over.

The same warm sun that softens the ice starts the sap to run and the sugar bush season begins. The watchers on the hill tell each other of days they remember from their childhood, of going by horse and sleigh to a neighbour’s bush where they were allowed to help empty the sap buckets, to taste the sweet watery sap and to carry firewood for the fire that burned under the open boiling pot.

 

Everyone agrees that they don’t make syrup that way anymore. Now it’s all plastic tubing and sanitary procedures.  No matter how it’s made, they all agree that there is no treat like the taste of maple taffy chilled on the fresh snow in the sugar bush and no tea that tastes better than tea made with boiling maple sap.

April brings a sort of lottery to the watchers with their hilltop vantage point.  Every year they make their best guess as to the date and time when the ice will go out. Small but very serious wagers are placed and careful watch kept as the dark, bluish patches streak the ice surface and the ice pack teases the watchers by shifting away from and then right back to the shore. Some years Mother Nature plays a trick and sends an unexpected wind in the night that takes the ice away completely in the night and the wagerers waken to a dark blue shining surface of ice-free water.

Soon after the ice is gone, a pale green haze appears among the trees that have stood starkly black and naked through the winter months. The beginning of May brings memories of long ago days in May that were called Arbor Day which was not a holiday but a very special day in the school year. First there was the clean up. Every inch of the schoolyard was searched for any sort of trash. A dropped running shoe or an old lunch bag, maybe the wrapper from a stick of gum, every smidgen was collected till the schoolyard was as tidy as any parade ground. Once that chore was completed, the fun began. The teacher and all the pupils took their packed lunches and hiked to the bush. On Arbor Day the woods were a natural garden of wild flowers. The were trilliums and Jack-in-the-pulpit, violets and Mayflowers. Everyone has their own memory of Arbor Day.

By June the trees are fully leafed out and the watchers marvel at the many shades of green they can admire.  They may ask each other, as the poet asked, ‘What is so rare as a day in June? Then if ever come perfect days.’                                             

After the rare, perfect days of June come the ‘lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer’ when the lake becomes a playground again, bringing back echoes of summers of their youth. Every possible watercraft appears in their view—-canoes with paddles flashing with silver, to colourful kayaks in primary colours. There may be a flotilla of small sailboats in a regatta, their white sails curving like shells in the sun. Costly pleasure cruisers share space with little rubber inflatable dinghies on the shining waters beyond the hill.

A couple of chilly nights in August bring the first hint of fall with a yellowish cast to the green leaves. With September the tinge turns more yellow then gold and orange and by October the foliage adds reds and wine and warm brown shades to the kaleidoscope of colour to delight the eye. Every day new hues are added, a new vista appears with each walk around the building 

All too soon the cold wind and autumn rains will take us into the bleak, grey days of November and December till, with a new year the whole cycle begins again.

From time to time as the folks who live on the hill watch the changing seasons and share their memories, they will see a fox making his way across the slope. That would be me. I am the only fox left here now. I’m no longer the handsome, bushy-tailed fellow I used to be. My coat is no longer the glossy golden-red colour it once was. Now my coat is the rusty brown red of old age and my tail is not much of anything at all. I no longer prance across the slope, now it is more of a hobble. I am alone here on the hill now. I lost my mate to a speeding truck a few years ago. My youngsters are gone from the den. They saw the ever encroaching city and left for a greener, quieter place. They always intend to come and visit me but, you know, they are so busy…

So I watch you people sitting on the patio with your music or pushing your walkers in endless circles around the building or sitting on the balcony, telling each other the oft told tales of your youth just as I am telling you my stories and all the old stories handed down to me by my ancestors. Those stories may soon be forgotten or some of them may be threaded through the history of the inhabitants on both sides of the lake. My days as a storyteller will soon end and we may never know whether Samuel de Champlain ever came to this hill to survey the surrounding landscape.

The hill itself has changed over the centuries from lookout point to a place of food and fun and now to retirement living. No matter what changes come, there will always be storytelling and someone to tell about… … ‘the way it used to be.’