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Harriet St. George stepped off the train at the Canoe Lake Station and smoothed down her skirts. Tipping her head back she took a deep breath of the sharp air of early May. It was so wonderful to be free from the restraints of her rather conservative family. Here at Canoe Lake, Harriet could dispense with the cumbersome skirts and traipse through the bush clad in trousers and a flannel shirt. Not to mention the much more comfortable boots she wore while in the woods exploring for the perfect site to set up her portable easel and paintbox. She loved the French name for her paintbox: Pochade. It rolled off the tongue so nicely. Harriet giggled and refrained from doing just that. The locals already thought she was a bit strange, well except for Winnie Trainor who also liked to gad about in trousers and spend hours fishing out on the lake.
Shaking her head, Harriet turned to collect her luggage, not much more than the aforementioned paintbox and a duffle stuffed with what she would need for a summer of painting and fishing in the Park. Hopefully, the Frasers of Mowat Lodge had received her telegram, and her room would be ready when she got there. With the paintbox in one hand and the duffle over her shoulder, she went in search of the park ranger, Mark Robinson, who kept track of all comings and goings in the Park and had promised to arrange her transport from the station to the Mowat Lodge.
The duffle was heavier than one would expect, but that weight made Harriet’s heart light. Along with the few clothes stuffed haphazardly in the bottom, most of the room was taken up with her collection of oil paints, brushes, and thin wooden shingles that she intended to use painting en plien aire. She’d copied that trick from a fellow painter she’d met last summer. Tom Thomson tended to paint quickly, but with an accuracy and feel that Harriet envied, any place he found a scene in the woods that spoke to him he captured it on the shingle boards. Only later did he transform the rough painting on the board into a canvas. Usually over the winter when he returned to Toronto.
Someday, she promised herself. Someday women artists would be recognized as well as the men. She loved the vibrant new style that was developing in the Canadian art world. Slipping away from the traditional method of reproducing a scene in minute detail. The advent of photography was slowly making that form of art less popular. Thomson’s use of colour and bold strokes of paint intrigued Harriet and she vowed to attempt to hone her own skills this summer.
“Oh, Mark. There you are,” she greeted the tall, thin park ranger who stepped out of the station house.
“Miss St. George.” Mark acknowledged her with a tiny bob of his head.
“Oh, please, it’s Harriet,” she chided him. “Once I ditch these skirts you’ll be hard pressed to tell me from the locals.” Harriet gazed at the thick bush and the pale blue early May sky, the lake where the ice was just beginning to break up. “I do love this place.”
“Harriet, then, if you wish. I’m sure if your father was here he wouldn’t approved of me being so familiar.”
“Pish posh on my father. I’m free for the summer of his stuffy ideas of what is proper for a young lady.” She giggled. “I have my Great Aunt Lois to thank for this freedom, she left me a generous inheritance with strict instructions to use it as my heart desired. And I desire to spend the summer here, in Algonquin Park, painting and fishing. Watching the stars and moon shining over the lake.”
Mark rubbed a hand over the short whiskers on his face, unsure just how to respond to her comments. Instead, he took the pochade box from her hand and led the way off the platform. “I’ve arranged a ride for you with Shannon Fraser. He’s here to collect the mail and is willing to take you back to Mowat Lodge with him for twenty-five cents.”
“Twenty-five cents? Really? When I’ve already paid him for my room for the whole summer? You’d think the least he could do is provide me transportation to his lodge.” Harrier sniffed. Shannon and Annie Fraser weren’t her favourite people, but their lodge was right on the edge of Canoe Lake, which was most convenient, not to mention that Mowat Lodge was where Tom Thomson lived when he wasn’t out in the bush painting or guiding fishing tours.
Robinson shrugged. “Surely you’re not really surprised, Harriet. After spending all of August at their place last summer you must know what he’s like.”
“Sadly, that is true.” Harriet followed Mark toward the converted hearse that Fraser used to transport customers and others from the lodge to the train station and back. “Anything for a penny,” she muttered digging in her reticule for the required payment.
“Mister Fraser,” she greeted the tall somewhat scruffy man who waited by the carriage.
“Miss St. George,” he replied. “Mrs. Fraser has your room all ready for you. Let me take that.” He reached for her duffle and paintbox.
“I can manage, thank you.” She set the duffle on the floor of the carriage and stepped back to let Mark place the compact paintbox on the seat. Harriet gathered her skirts and stepped up into the high wheeled passenger compartment. “Thank you, Mark. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
“I’m sure you will.” Mark pushed the door closed with a snick.
She waved out the open window when Shannon Fraser climbed onto the driver’s bench and set the team in motion. Harriet kept one hand on her precious paintbox and gripped the window frame with the other. The road, if it could be called that, was rough and ill kept. The carriage jerked and bounced over and through the rutted half-frozen path. Early May in the north country was more than a bit behind the conditions in Old Ontario. She looked out the window at the sun-gilded trees just starting to show a sheen of green as their newly minted leaves began to emerge. A cluster of pussy willow bushes brushed against the side of the carriage, the grey buds softly glowing with a rosy blush.
Oh, how she longed to pull out the paints and capture that glorious montage of colour. Time enough for that, she told herself as the converted hearse jolted along. She should have asked Mark if Winnie Trainor had arrived yet. Sometimes Winnie came up in March, but it was usually a bit later. Her family owned a cabin on the lake, beside the two-story whitewashed cottage of the German-Americans who came up each summer. Harriet thought of Winnie as a comrade in arms, flouting the mores of stuffy civilized society. Harriet’s lip curled a little at the thought of civilized society. Winnie liked nothing better than to spend the day fishing or tramping through the bush. Although Harriet suspected the tramping through the bush might be motivated more by the chance that Winnie might come across Tom Thomson than any real interest in the surroundings.
Harriet gave a little sigh. Maybe she was being a bit harsh. Thomson certainly seemed to like the woman and was kind toward her anytime Harriet had seen them together the previous summer. For herself, Harriet liked the man. He was always willing to talk about painting with her and offering suggestions to improve her own work. She found his paintings fascinating and often studied the ones he left lying out to let the paint cure. Once last summer she’d come across him while out painting herself and they’d spent a glorious late August afternoon painting in silent accord. Harriet was very proud of the work she’d done that day, capturing not only the rough details dominated by the sun on the lake and the shades and shadows of the trees, but the essence of the scene. Even in the depths of winter when she’d pulled that particular painting out she’d felt the sun on her back and smelt the earthy, piney fragrance of the bush.
The carriage jolted to a halt breaking her out of her thoughts. When Fraser opened the carriage door she ignored his offer of help and jumped down on her own, turning to gather up her belongings.
“Annie’s in the office. You can collect yer key from her.” Fraser dismissed her with his usual brusque manner, leading the team toward the back of the lodge.
“Thank you,” Harriet called after him, more for politeness’ sake than because he actually deserved the sentiment. Picking up her belongings she made her way up to the entrance to Mowat Lodge and went in search of Annie Fraser, hoping she really was in the office and that Harriet wouldn’t have to go looking for her.