Ontario Sky
A day at the beach used to mean a beach towel, transistor radio, and enough sun tan oil to coat an elephant. Today my beach requirements are more likely to involve a French easel, wide brimmed hat, and enough oil paint to cover several canvases —and oh yes, a tree for shade. Lake Ontario is not noted for its beaches, but unbeknownst to most, there is a tiny stretch of shore near Wilson that contains enough sand to qualify as such. By any respectable beach standard, this beach is marginal; it is too narrow to hold much of a crowd, and too stony for easy barefoot walking, yet it is wide enough to set up an easel under a leafy tree canopy right at waters edge. Perfect.
Recently my husband and I had the good fortune to stumble upon a nature center in Erie, PA. A documentary film titled “The Mysteries of the Great Lakes” intrigued us enough to sit down and watch it. Partially filmed from a low-flying helicopter, I was awestruck by miles and miles of deep green forest that set off the intense sapphire blue of these glacier carved lakes. Magnificent rocky cliffs cascaded into the water and the whole effect was one of pristine wilderness. Call it an “ah ha” moment, or what ever, the impact of these glorious images have forever changed my perception of these fresh water jewels. Although the lakes still look untouched from the air, we all know –or should know– about the ravages of abuse they’ve suffered over the past two hundred years. Lake Ontario, once teeming with wild-born Atlantic Salmon, lost them all to nineteenth century pollution and over-fishing.
One muggy morning in August I set up my easel on the shore of my newly discovered beach. As if on cue, a family of brilliant white swans emerged from a point near the end of the beach where Twelve Mile Creek empties into Lake Ontario. I say that optimistically because very often there is not enough water in the creek to empty into anything. As this little creek winds its way from Pekin to Wilson, it almost touches the back corner of our property. In the spring it roars mightily with melting snow and spring showers, but as summer wears on, weedy grasses take over and the water dries to a trickle. Early last fall I was dumfounded when I saw huge fish wiggling and splashing over rocks in the in the shallow water. There was barely enough water to cover their backs but apparently they were on a mission to swim up stream at all costs. My neighbor, Sam, told me later lake salmon swim up Twelve Mile Creek to spawn. (I also learned later that these are stocked fish, not native.)
What is it about water that is so soothing to the spirit? The enveloping atmosphere of a beach can sweep you up into it, and allow you to become part of it if only for a brief spell; the sound of waves breaking on the sand, a backdrop of soft blues and greens, and water stretching as far as the eye can see. How do I get to the essence of this beautiful place without being cliched? Through a thin film of pinky- gray haze I could make out the faint outline of the Toronto skyline. It appeared to hover just above the horizon. An uneasy note crept into my consciousness reminding me that this tiny paradise of a beach may not remain so forever.
Recently forty one yearling wild-born Atlantic salmon were found in the Salmon River at the eastern end of Lake Ontario in New York. This is a milestone, but, can we stay the course? —has our collective conscience been stirred enough to do the right thing, and do we have enough fortitude to place the well being of people and wild life over irresponsible squandering of natural resources to make a buck?
