Peace of Mind

Enjoy The Beauty And Solitude Of Northern Ontario At Chippawa Cottage Resort, Barry's Bay Ontario

By JILL RIGBY Toronto Sun

There are two things which could lure me back to this part of the world: Murphy Lake and Barney. One is about solitude. The other is about entertainment. And although they cannot be experienced at the same time, Murphy Lake and Barney share a common link.

Murphy Lake defines what this part of the world is all about: serenity. Which is one of the reasons Barney pulled up his New York City roots to move to the Canadian outback.

It's quiet here. People don't bug you. Plus, according to Barney, politics north of the 49th are eminently more digestible. Barney's views of the world are learned not so much through conversation, but from listening to his music. Some of the war vet's spirited ballads are about his hippie buddies who still live on the communes they created hereabouts decades ago. Other songs might be about life where the musician used to live. Whatever, the bearded long-hair's ditties are compelling narratives set to toe-tapping tunes that are difficult to forget.

We almost missed one of Barney's unscheduled performances at Chippawa Cottage Resort. Chippawa owner Donald Dunn had flown us 15-minute seaplane flight back to the resort for a dinner experience we were unlikely to forget - prime rib and Barney. When we arrived at Chippawa (a little culture-shocked after a solitary night in the woods) the log dining room with its trademark northern Ontario ambience was already brimming with happy guests. People were strolling up to Barney, requesting songs and just plain shooting the breeze, while Dunn's children and wife tended to supper. Accordian music filled the air during the meal as the wandering minstrel roamed from table to table.

Everyone seemed to know Barney, or at least who he was, and then he finally reached us. That's when Barney sang us one of his favorite songs The King of the Irish. Seems that an Irish woman some time ago came to settle near Barry's Bay. She was a friend of Barney's. One day she met an Indian, much her junior, whom she promptly fell in love with and married. After the wedding the couple decided to visit Ireland, so that friends and family might meet the new husband. Not long after arriving in the wee Irish village, tongues were wagging about the mixed marriage. Seems there was at least one person who thought everyone was acting pretty silly. One evening, while having a beer in the local pub, the bride's mother stood up and bellowed "I'll have you all know that the first king of the Irish was an Indian!" As soon as Barney heard the tale, he knew it would make a great ballad. For most people a dose of the outdoors at Chippawa, together with an evening with Barney, is all that's needed to put a smile on everyone's face.

But for those who like to get a little further away, there is always the Murphy Lake cabin. Solitude and Murphy Lake are synonymous. In fact, the crystalline body of water on the eastern border of Algonquin Park gives new meaning to the phrase `getting away from it all.' No roads. No people. Only a pair of loons and your thoughts disturb the silence. Most of the time. A couple of local fishermen did make their way to the lake via an old logging road, but that's unusual. Few know about Murphy Lake and even fewer have the all-terrain vehicles needed to get there. Simply put: by land it's a slog. Enter Dunn and his seaplane.

Except for the brief sighting of picturesque Barry's Bay, most of the flight to Murphy Lake is over untouched, virtually inaccessible;wilderness. Heading towards the lake, Dunn points out the line that marks the park border. A faint lightness can be spotted in the trees where surveyors mapped the park's boundaries decades ago. Besides that vague mark, nothing else honed by the hands of man can be discerned. The comfortable Cessna starts to head down and, in the distance, a dock can be seen on the water.

As we open the doors of the plane, the silence is overwhelming. We unload our food supplies for the weekend and Dunn comments that we actually have enough for a week (the better half thought he had best buy more than necessary, in case we got stranded). Then thereare our duffel bags stuffed with clothing - something else of which we had brought a definite excess.

As Dunn sped across the lake and lifted off, tipping his wings to say goodbye, we looked at each other quizzically. Guess it's time for a swim,I said. Think you're right, came the response. And so we tore off our clothes and dove into the clean clear water, surfacing to the sight of a treed shoreline and deep blue sky. Think I've died and gone to heaven, were the only words I could muster. Me, too,was the gleeful reply. The nights were filled with coal black skies and countless stars. The mournful echoes of a pair of loons who call the lake home filled the air and we knew it just couldn't get any better.

We contentedly whiled away our two days swimming (I think I averaged 12 swims per day); canoeing the shoreline looking for the loons (which we always found); and watching the local moose as he sauntered through the water, his pace reminiscent of a Sunday stroll.

Heaven? We now spell it M-U-R-P-H-Y L-A-K-E.