Joseph Adams, Ten Thousand Miles Through Canada, 1912

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[…] By the time Algonquin Park is reached, a distance of 200 miles from Toronto, the

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train has climbed to an altitude of over 1500 feet above sea level.

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It was dark when the train climbed up the last ascent that led to our destination. But the concentrated sound enabled the senses to feel the proximity of the forest. Now and again the loud roar of a

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cataract could be distinctly heard above the rumble of the cars. The forest covers an area of 1,800,000 acres, intersected with over a thousand lakes and rivers. The sense of vastness which this suggests is overwhelming. It is Canada in its primitive and undisturbed condition. Put down in the midst of Algonquin a line of fifty miles extends in every direction without a break, through primeval forest and lake, except where fire has burned a clearing, a trail has been made, or a tornado ripped a gap. Everything as it was a thousand years ago; the fish that swim its water; the beaver that wags his sullen head in ambling gait, and the woodpecker that rings from its majestic pines the weird vibrating note. […]

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In one particular only can the hand of the spoiler be traced out in the primeval forest. The narrow watercourses that connect the lakes have a margin of dead trees, that present a melancholy contrast to the exuberant floral life that lies behind them. How came this touch of death, this blight of forest, as if some pestilential breath had swept these water avenues? The answer is found in a too wanton commercialism, caused by the lumbering industry. Great dams have been erected in the rivers that drain Algonquin Park. Their object is to hold up the stream until the time comes for floating down the huge log rafts. This pent-up water floods the margin of the forest; the trees are literally drowned, and stand dismantled of every vestige of foliage. This is only one effect of lumbering; there is another which the traveler does not appreciate until he passes through the Rocky Mountains, or explores Vancouver Park. There the magnificent

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Douglas pines rise in towering height into the blue dome of Heaven, some of the finest specimens of trees in the world’s arboretum. Algonquin Park once held them even as the valley of the Selkirks and the fertile soil on the shores of the Pacific. But the lumber merchant’s axe rang out the death of these giants, and the Ontario Park knows them no more. […]

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To enjoy the real delights of Algonquin Park it is advisable to plan a camping-out expedition. I took the earliest opportunity of arranging one. I was fortunate in securing as a guide one of the official rangers, an excellent man, well acquainted with the forest. We had a complete outfit and ample provision for a week’s journey. Fish could be caught on the way, but tinned meats had to do duty for game and venison, as shooting was not permitted. The canoe was of the orthodox birch-bark make, built by an Ojibwa Indian, and was a model of cunning workmanship. Its defects lay in its weight, the guide estimating it at 100lb., but the ease with which he swung it over his head and at the same time carried a heavy pack strapped to his forehead, showed that of things’ avoirdupois he made trifles.

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The evening shadows were falling on Canoe Lake when we left the river. The day had been hot, and a thunderstorm was brewing. Mark, apprehensive of discomfort, plied the paddle with renewed vigour, making the canoe shoot rapidly through the water. On the western margin the dark pines made fantastic shadows, and the islets in the centre of the lake repeated themselves in inverted forms in its clear depth. The shelter of a hut waited us on the lake

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shore, equipped with all needful camping utensils. A pile of logs lay ready for use, which had been chopped by the last occupant of the shelter, a rule strictly observed amongst the rangers. A man, wet to the skin, and weary after a long march through the forest, perhaps with the weight of a deer on his shoulder, beaches his canoe on the lonely shore. In the cheery blaze of the logs ready to hand, he can at least trace out some sense of human companionship and forethought.

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The morning broke sullenly, the blue sky was gone, and showers fell at intervals. We started off in macintoshes for a twenty-mile paddle across Canoe Lake, through South Tea Lake and on to Muskoka, I trolled with minnow and natural bait, but did not succeed in getting any trout.

Canoe Lake fishes well during the early part of the season. It yielded one angler a 14-lb. trout, a month before my arrival. These big fish come on the feed in fits and starts. They lie up for several days after gorging. It is when they go on the prowl again that the angler’s lure proves so deadly. Canoe Lake and Tea Lake are the highway of the lumbering traffic, and the fish are disturbed a good deal. [...]

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[...] Canada is every year becoming more and more the playground of the American tourist, and the most accessible rivers and lakes are being rapidly used up. […]