Drawing water from the spring

Danny at the spring

At our cottage in Haliburton Highlands, Ontario, we collect drinking water from a nearby spring. The water is sweet, clear, refreshing and arises from one of Earth’s most ancient land masses.

I’m grateful for the work of local cattagers who maintain the spring. They have covered the main source to keep out dirt and fallen leaves. A plastic pipe brings the flow conveniently to a platform near the road. This year someone has replaced the old wooden trestle with a secure metal grate.

Whenever we go there, I enjoy reading a simple poem someone nailed to tree years ago.

Poem at the spring

Its fading blue typeface reminds me of the transience of human life—all our pleasure, tragedy, and quest for meaning—overtop a geological history lasting billions of years.

Standing on this trestle
While water fills my vessel
I contemplate with wonder
The water source that’s under

How deep, how wide, how far around
The crystal sea that’s underground

Sustaining life, nourishing health
Praise be given for such wealth

The municipality has also posted a sign, far more prosaic.

The spring arises near the roadside leading to a secluded region of seasonal properties not far from Algonquin Provincial Park’s southwest border. Nearby, ambitious canoeists can penetrate one of the park’s backwoods access points via Dividing Lake Provincial Nature Reserve. A few rare old growth white pines are reported to dot the forest there, though one of their stands was destroyed by a tornado about 20 years ago.

My father and I once hiked the requisite portage from Kimball Lake to Rockaway Lake. It’s 2.7 kilometres long and ascends at least 70 metres. We scrambled through soggy wetland and slippery crevices. I couldn’t imagine carrying a canoe and a week’s supplies, at least not in this body and lifetime.

Haliburton is less famous and more laid-back than adjoining Muskoka, both part of Ontario’s cottage country. In Ontario, Adirondack Chairs are called Muskoka Chairs. With that naming, Haliburton and the Kawarthas got overlooked along with all the wilderness further north.

Popularly called Haliburton Highlands, this is one of the highest points on the Canadian Shield in Ontario. In researching this, I discovered it was named after Thomas Chandler Haliburton, a Nova Scotia politician in the 19th Century, international best-selling author, and a founder of North American humour. I’d never heard of him before.

Geographically it is part of the Laurentian Uplands of Southern Quebec and Central Ontario. This formation extends into parts of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan and New York, where it is known as the Superior Upland. Quebec’s Laurentian Mountains and New York’s Adirondacks belong to it. These rocks were formed about 2.5 billion years ago.

They collided with some even older land masses up to 4.2 billion years old. The resulting Canadian Shield covers most of Ontario, Quebec and Labrador, northern Manitoba and Saskatchewan, all of the Canadian Arctic, and Greenland. It once contained mountains higher than any on Earth today, but they have been worn down by erosion.

Glaciation during the past few million years has shaped the landscape existing today: more rolling than mountainous, with thin topsoil. Thousands of small lakes and rivers dot the Canadian Shield. Young watersheds still haven’t sorted themselves out. Bogs are common, known in many parts of Canada by the Cree word, muskeg. Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven painters made this scenery more familiar to the world. Muskoka and Haliburton Counties are famous for low cliffs of pink granite emerging from serene lakes.

Although the Shield has supported important logging and mining industries, it has resisted agriculture and urban development. For this reason Canada, the world’s second largest country by area next to Russia, has the second lowest population density next to Australia. Most Canadians live in fertile regions south of the shield.

Canada famously contains 20 percent of the world’s fresh water, largely due to lakes and rivers on the Canadian Shield. However, the majority of this is fossil water in lakes, glaciers and underground aquifers that can’t be renewed.

In fact, Canada contains only 7 percent of the world’s renewable fresh water resources. About half of that flows north across the Canadian Shield to Hudson Bay and the Arctic Ocean. It is inaccessible to the vast majority of Canadians living along the southern border.

Our cottage is located on Fletcher Lake, one of more than 2,000 lakes in the Muskoka River watershed, which flows southwest from Algonquin Provincial Park to Georgian Bay, part of Lake Huron and the Great Lakes. This watershed area features relatively moderate summer temperatures and high precipitation, nearly 1,000 millimetres per year. Vacationers come to Muskoka and Haliburton to escape the sweaty heat of Southern Ontario.

And they come for the water. Especially the water. Personally, I go there also for the solitude, wildlife and plant life, but I’m a reclusive botany geek. Even to me, cottage life wouldn’t be the same without that clean, sweet water, a delight for swimming. Fletcher Lake is probably spring fed, perhaps from the same fossil aquifer feeding the nearby fount where we draw our drinking water.

Drinking water

I don’t think I take this water for granted. I’m always grateful. On the other hand, I assume the spring and our lake are too far from anywhere, that no one will ever come demanding our water.

The Ontario government recently raised the fee for bottled water companies from $3.71 to $503.71 per million litres of water they extract from natural resources. However, critics doubt it will deter Nestlé Waters from mining an aquifer near Guelph. They argue that clean water must be protected as a human right, belonging to the commons. It should not be privately owned or commercially exploited.

The flow of water never fluctuates from that pipe someone has kindly set up by the spring. It will probably keep flowing as long as I live, but no one can tell. I doubt anybody even knows where it comes from.

Rights come with responsibilities, as demonstrated by invisible caretakers who graciously share this spring. A right is actually a privilege until we lose it.

Know your hoverflies

Bees attract attention. Even if you’re not afraid of them, when there’s a bee around, you take notice. Besides the fact that they sting, bees have been in the news because of their decline due to the mysterious colony collapse disorder. But don’t be too quick to judge that yellow-striped insect pollinating your parsley. It might not be a bee at all, but an equally important hoverfly, like the one on my parsley, shown above.

Honey bees provide the essential hard labour pollinating many valuable food crops, especially the vast majority of fruits and nuts that we eat. So their decline has raised alarm in the food industry. Ironically, industrial agriculture might be partly to blame. Some research has shown bees exposed to neonicotinoid pesticides collect less pollen. Poorer foraging could threaten the survival of the colony.

Honey bees are a managed species like cattle or wheat. The most common and important species, Apis mellifera, is believed to have originated in Africa or Asia. It became the first domesticated insect. It spread with the help of humans, and they introduced it to North America, South America, Australia, New Zealand and East Asia within the past five hundred years.

Honey bees as pollinators contributed an estimated $2.03 billion in additional harvest to the Canadian farm economy in 2013, while honey and related products were valued at only $200 million.

How can hoverflies be that important? Maybe they are not, considering only their direct economic value. A 2011 study found that wild pollinators performed more than one third of the pollination of crops in California. Wild pollinators include wild bees, wasps, hoverflies, other flies, butterflies, moths, and beetles.

Hoverflies represent just one part of a diverse mosaic of species that pollinate our crops and native plants. An industry that relies so heavily on one species such as the honey bee is at risk. Biodiversity is essential to achieving food security. Small farmers have known this and diversified crops for centuries.

But hoverflies also do double duty as biocontrols. The larvae of some species are voracious predators on aphids and other soft-bodied prey. They are as effective as ladybug and lacewing larvae at controlling insect pests on plants. Other hoverfly larvae feed on rotting wood and some are aquatic.

Hoverflies are common, often colourful, and easy to recognize if you know what to look for. They are often mistaken for bees, bumblebees and wasps, and that is no accident. Adult hoverflies are defenseless, but by imitating stinging insects they trick predators into leaving them alone. Like bees they have a slim waist above the thorax, which is often brightly decorated with bee-like stripes.

So which insect should you avoid, and which is harmless?

The most obvious indicator of a bee or wasp is its long antennae. For example, take a close look at the wasp on the goldenrod (above left) or the bee on the daisy (further above). A hoverfly has much shorter, stubby antennae with a bristle. Sometimes they are hard to see at all, or look like no more than whiskers (above right).

Another important characteristic of hoverflies is that (like all flies) they have only one pair of wings. All that remains of the hind wings is a pair of small knobs called halteres, which they use for balance. Bees and wasps are typical insects, having four wings. However, they are transparent and the bee folds them over its back when not in flight, so the two pairs are often hard to distinguish.

I have sometimes mistaken a bee for a hoverfly. This error you do not want to make. Trust the antennae!

Another difference you might be able to see is in the mouth parts. Most flies have a proboscis with spongy pads at the end for soaking up food. Like most insects they also have mandibles, but these are much smaller. Again, bees are more typical, with larger jaw-like mandibles. However, these are often hidden.

So take a closer look at that bee, which might not be a bee! As often as not, what appear to be native bees or wasps are actually hoverflies. You have nothing to fear from them. And in beginning to notice, you will appreciate the great diversity of insects pollinating our plants.

Hoverflies make up a family called Syrphidae. According to the Canadian National Collection of Insects, Arachnids and Nematodes, northeastern North America has 397 species of hoverfly. Their website has a photo gallery to help identify some of them. BugGuide shows images of many of the 813 species in North America. As many as 6,000 species have been described worldwide.

Some species are tiny, like this one I photographed, which was only a few millimetres long. If you spot a glittering fleck darting gracefully around the flower garden, it might be a hoverfly.

There has been little research on hoverfly populations, except on certain species known to be rare and endangered. However, many experts suspect insect populations in general have been declining due to the widespread use of pesticides. The most important evidence comes from the well-documented and dramatic decline of a group of bird species known as aerial insectivores, which includes swallows, swifts, flycatchers and a few others. This phenomenon is poorly understood, but probably indicates a loss of insects for them to feed upon.

Gardeners and farmers can help by providing habitat for beneficial insects. Hoverflies are going crazy around the parsley blooming in my garden right now in mid-July. I have often seen them on tansy and goldenrod. Some other plants said to attract them are buckwheat, alyssum, candytuft, and yarrow.

Midsummer is a great time of year to look for hoverflies wherever summer wildflowers bloom along roadways and bicycle paths. But hoverflies are also some of the first pollinators to appear in early spring. So look before you duck!

Hoverfly on crocus

Backyard habitat for black swallowtail caterpillars

Two weeks ago today I chanced to witness a black swallowtail butterfly, Papilio polyxenes, taking advantage of my backyard habitat. It was laying eggs on dill plants in my garden and the neighbour’s. The eggs were yellow and smaller than the head of a pin. Over the weekend they turned orange.

After four days tiny black caterpillars appeared. They looked like frass. That’s the technical word for insect shit. It’s probably a good look for avoiding attention when you’re small. Not so effective when you’re fat and juicy. The ones in this photo, taken today, are about as long as my thumbnail. They’re starting to show some colour. As they mature they’ll grow more vivid and poisonous looking.

So far the mob of robins and starlings on our street hasn’t noticed them. Or maybe they’ll leave these bugs alone. The caterpillars taste bad and can release a foul smell to deter predators. In any case, hopefully a few will survive to turn into chrysalises and metamorphose into their gorgeous adult form.

The caterpillar is known as parsley worm because it favours parsley. It will feed on other umbellifers (Apiaceae), the family that includes carrots, celery, fennel and various seedy herbs such as coriander. This particular butterfly passed over a nearby parsley plant in preference for dill.

I’ve seen this before, long ago in the herb garden I planted as a teenager. I didn’t notice until the nearly full-grown caterpillars appeared in dramatic colouring on the dill plants. I hadn’t seen the butterflies, but with adolescent persistence I figured out what they were.

I make no allowance for cabbage worms on the kohlrabi, or earwings and leaf miners in the chard. But swallowtail caterpillars are allowed to live. It’s interesting, isn’t it, how we judge creatures differently if they are beautiful? The world has no shortage of white cabbage butterflies, but black swallowtails are also widely distributed across North America, and one of the most familiar butterflies locally. Undoubtedly somebody somewhere regards these striking insects as pests. I don’t begrudge them one or two dill seedlings, which volunteer themselves abundantly each spring.

I count 10 caterpillars on the one little plant, which doesn’t appear to be suffering yet. That’s likely to change because these caterpillars are growing quickly. I might even move some of them to a new plant.

Just call me a swallowtail farmer. Or a cultivator of beauty.

If the worms began gnawing at the crown of my zucchini vines or boring into ripe Brandywine tomatoes, I might treat them differently. Honestly, I wouldn’t think twice. So much for aesthetics.

Native among the herbs: Monarda fistulosa

One of my favourite native wildflowers is Monarda fistulosa, wild bergamot. It’s the slightly plainer sister of the showy red-flowered herb M. didyma or bee-balm. M. fistulosa produces lavender-coloured flowers and is called wild bergamot because the whole plant smells like a bergamot orange. This fruit is hardly familiar to North Americans except as the flavour of Earl Grey tea. Anyone who uses essential oils has likely come across bergamot oil.

One of the reasons I have a soft spot for M. fistulosa, is that it was the first native plant I ever grew from seed, and it happened almost by accident. As a teenager I began collecting native wildflower seeds and trying to germinate them. Mostly they proved a challenge for me as a novice horticulturalist.

I came across a dried out seed head in the vacant lot beside my house and collected some seeds, not knowing what it was. They germinated more easily than anything else I had tried. When the plant finally bloomed the following year, it turned out to be a wildflower I had never noticed before. Its ring of delicate florets formed a distinct coronet. But having grown M. didyma in my herb garden, I immediately recognized wild bergamot for what it was. Besides, it has the square stem distinctive of the mint family, which includes a large proportion of familiar culinary and medicinal herbs.

The plant in the photo above is not directly descended from the one I grew as a teenager. But I did germinate this one from purchased seed about five years ago.

Wild bergamot’s flavour is a little less intense, a little greener, a little wilder than that of domesticated bee-balm. I like to add a few leaves to my morning pot of green tea. Native pollinators love the flowers.

I’ve decided to dedicate more space to herbs in the garden this year. Well, not exactly in the garden. I’ve planted the main collection in four plastic barrels by the front porch, formerly occupied by tomatoes and peppers. Tarragon, thyme, lavender and wild bergamot survived the winter. Parsley and dill are already volunteering. New lemon verbena, oregano, sage, marjoram, rosemary, pineapple sage and some other plants came from the nursery. Meanwhile, chocolate mint will prefer the shady back patio, where chervil sprouting between the bricks and is ready to bloom white sprays any day now. There’s enough peppermint growing wild in the creek behind our house to supply the entire neighbourhood, though I suppose hardly anybody knows it’s there.

Sadly, I made the choice to dig up and discard lovage. It’s another one of my favourite herbs, with an intense celery flavour for soups. But the monstrous plant has no place in my small raised vegetable bed any longer, and the deep taproot won’t adapt to container living. Besides, it breeds discontentment, making me long for a bigger yard.

Many, many herbs are well suited to container gardening and small spaces, so let’s make the most of them. This herb garden is taking shape. It reminds me of the one I planted as a teenager. Herbs have played a subtle but important role throughout my life, with their savour, richness and hint of magic. Most are immigrants from the Old World, with ancient lineages barely decipherable.

But not wild bergamot. It grew from the same soil as me, and I met it there. It has a softer, more polite stature than cultivated bee-balm. In fact it holds a distinctly Canadian posture beside the Mediterranean oregano and very English lavender that will share its barrel this summer.

Where have all the flowers gone?


Where have all the flowers gone? It’s a hackneyed question, but I needed an answer today. I found them growing by the Grand River near Waterloo, Ontario.

This morning brought news of the devastating shooting at an Orlando nightclub that killed at least 50 people. Later the same day, a man with weapons and explosives was arrested on his way to the gay pride parade in Los Angeles. The violence hit me particularly hard; I felt crushed.

My partner and I had planned to go for a walk today. It turned out to be a particularly timely plan. We needed beauty.

I’m a water child. I’ve missed living within easy walking distance of the Eramosa and Speed Rivers in Guelph, Ontario. Since moving to Waterloo last year, we’ve had close access to a stream and hiking trails through the woods. So I shouldn’t complain. But even an abundance of ephemeral spring wildflowers isn’t the same. For me a river provides a potent metaphor for the journey of life. I need to visit water more often.

But Waterloo does have access to one of Ontario’s major river systems: the Grand River, to which the Speed and Eramosa are tributaries. We just have to make a little more effort to get there. So today I looked up the best access points and we drove across town. At Claude Dubrick Trailway the vista shown above waited to welcome us.

I’m appalled at how recent atrocities have set the bar for violence higher and higher. Hikes and wildflowers might not seem a useful solution to the problem. Or are they?


The riverbanks were dappled with pale pink and purple clumps of dame’s rocket, Hesperis matronlis. Their clove-like fragrance hung in the warm June air. I should know the identity of this familiar grass, but I don’t know my grasses. There’s still so much to learn about the world.


White Canada anemones, Anemone canadensis, blossomed by the trail, emblems of simplicity and clarity. Born as I was in Canada I feel close to my roots whenever I walk a trail and see wildflowers. Not everyone has the privilege of familiarity and belonging. We all need rootedness.


Buttercups are familiar to many, but drawing nearer I discovered a slight variation on the usual. This was a creeping buttercup, Ranunculus repens, and its tiny flower even more ravishing.

Sunlight, fragrant spring air, rootedness, beauty and a little exercise: I felt the river and its inhabitants pulling the edges of my distress. Veils fell away from the eyes of my mind. We saw gulls, a pileated woodpecker, swallows, an American redstart and other birds.


Exploring the nearby woods, we found one of my favourite wildflowers, herb-robert, Geranium robertianum. It brings cheer to the shadowy places all summer long. It’s a good symbol of hope. I have come through a difficult period of depression recently. Hopelessness kills; I know this. We can all use some herb-robert.


This last wildflower will be familiar to herbalists: comfrey or Symphytum officinale. I didn’t quite recognize it at first; the plant was more delicate and the flowers less blue than the comfrey that once grew in my herb garden. This and the dame’s rocket are alien plants gone wild, but it’s hard to resist their beauty.

The Latin word officinale or officinalis denotes herbs belonging to the storeroom of a monastery, plants believed to have medicinal qualities. Modern herbalists usually do not recommend comfrey be taken internally because it contains alkaloids that can lead to liver failure. But bees love it. The roots draw nutrients from deep in the soil, making it an excellent source of organic fertilizer. Toxic or not, it’s a good medicine plant.

We’re living on a perilous edge where community is giving way to cynicism, alienation and hatred. Ultimately the thing we need is healthy communities where people’s rights are balanced with responsibilities to one another. Without this no weapons or political agencies can provide security.

We need to stop what we’re doing and reflect. Community is part of nature, too. Today’s short pilgrimage took me to a place of sanctuary, fertility and healing. So wherever the flowers have gone, follow me there. Go find your own and I’ll follow you, too.

Corduroy road excavated in uptown Waterloo


Last month construction workers in uptown Waterloo uncovered a corduroy road beneath King Street. According to archaeologist Charlton Carscallen it was probably one of the first roads in the region built by European Settlers. He suggests it was constructed before 1816 by Mennonites who moved from Pennsylvania after the American Revolution.

Corduroy roads are made of rough logs laid down at right angles to the direction of travel, then covered with sand. They were used to prevent horses and vehicles from getting mired in mud through wet, swampy areas. Such roads were used in Europe since at least 4000 BCE. They could be a hazard to horses if the logs shifted. In this case not only felled logs but also tree stumps are visible.

King Street is being excavated to make way for a new light rail transit line. The project is not without controversy, particularly due to the heavy toll on local businesses.

Construction halted in March when the historic road was uncovered, as required by law. Archaeologists have now finished documenting it, and removal of the logs is expected to begin in a few days.

I wanted to glimpse this piece of history before it disappears forever.

Earth Day: get a jump on spring planting


My neighbour disapproves of me gardening before the end of May. He doesn’t say so directly, but makes sidelong references to inevitable cold weather and the threat of frost. I don’t argue but carry on like the ant in the parable, hoping the outcome will prove me right. Early planting can extend the season considerably.

Some vegetables can be sown in the garden as early as the soil can be worked. That means when the frost is gone and it’s not so wet that digging harms the structure of clay soil. To test it, try making ball out of a handful of soil; if it won’t stick together it’s safe to dig.

Vegetables that can be grown at this time include many leafy greens:

  • lettuce
  • spinach
  • kale
  • broccoli
  • Brussels sprouts
  • cabbage
  • arugula
  • Swiss chard

Thanks to a southern exposure and raised beds, my garden became workable during mild weather in late March. I sowed kohlrabi, kale, arugula (photo above) and spinach.

I like to cover the seeds with a sheet of corrugated cardboard for a few days. This keeps the warm, sun-drenched soil evenly moist and provides protection against the harshest weather. I check under the cardboard every day and remove it as soon as seedlings appear. But don’t try this with carrots or lettuce: they need sunlight and won’t germinate under cover.

Square foot garden 1

Then we had some more cold weather, hard frosts, ice storms and persistent snow. You might expect all that severity to nip my seedlings in the bud, but it didn’t. Fast-germinating seedlings in the cabbage family simply stopped and waited for the weather to warm up again. Spinach, on the other hand, takes several weeks to germinate. It did its preliminaries under the snow. Now this week it’s cropping up happily.

I like to garden slowly: not too much work all at once. It’s easier on my body and lets me spread out the pleasure of planting things. Each day I undertake a few tasks. Unfortunately I lost my chance to plant Swiss chard and beets before more snow flew. Instead they went into the ground today, to mark Earth Day (April 22).

Carrots can handle frost but I’m cautious about planting them too early. The seeds are small, they need to lie exposed on the surface and they take about three weeks to germinate, so I don’t want to expose them to the ravages of late winter storms. I deliberately saved them to plant now. About a month before last frost is right. Early varieties could be sown much sooner under clear plastic row covers, but I’m not that technologically advanced.

Peas can rot in cold, wet ground. Save them too until winter has done its worst. Then be prepared for them to germinate and grow quickly.

You must wait until after last frost to plant:

  • tomatoes
  • peppers
  • beans
  • squash
  • melons
  • cucumbers
  • corn

Hardy perennials can also be planted and transplanted early. I decided to move most of my perennial herbs out of the square-foot garden to make more room for a succession of vegetables. In March I moved French tarragon, sage and thyme into a big barrel for the season. Some of the herbs, particularly the tarragon, got frostbitten by the late winter storms, but it was quick to recover.


If you want to plant trees, Earth Day is a good time. It will give those saplings time to establish their roots before drought hits. In fact, trees will do even better if they’re planted in the fall. Their roots continue to grow in winter, searching out new sources of moisture and nutrients. Spring is alright but make sure to give that sapling lots of watery attention through the coming summer.

Once the weather warms up it’s too late to transplant trees and shrubs. Sure, people do it, but you’re making an unfair demand on the plant to establish its roots in summer. It’s unkind. Be patient and wait until next fall. The tree will become better established and grow more quickly anyway.

Ontario’s growing season is so short we must do our best to extend it. Last year thanks to early sowing I harvested spinach, leaf lettuce and arugula in May, peas and kale by mid-June. Maybe if the neighbours are envious enough, they’ll try it too.

Men’s knitting retreat: an act of creativity


The idea of creativity invokes arts, crafts and design. We usually use it to describe an individual or small group of collaborators who create something with sensual impact like a musical composition, a knitted shawl or an innovative ad campaign. Tangible creativity blossomed during the first Canadian men’s knitting retreat, which took place this past weekend, April 15 to 17, 2016.

Social interaction can manifest another kind of creativity that’s less tangible but equally rich. We often experience this when people meet. Diverse talents and ideas create an unexpected outpouring of emotion, thought and inspiration that wouldn’t happen otherwise. When conditions are right, the sum can be significantly greater than its parts. Extended time together multiplies the effect. This is why people like to hold conferences, conventions and seminars.


I have experienced this in a particular way with men’s knitting retreats. And yesterday (Sunday) morning, when the 19 men met for a final time, as their thoughts and impressions unfolded in our midst, I knew something remarkably good had happened. I might have known earlier in the weekend as I saw the men knitting together in the sunshine, sharing meals, embracing a friendly baby goat and gaining inspiration from workshops. But I had had a hand in organizing it this time and it’s difficult to inspect one’s own creations objectively. The feedback confirmed my belief that the retreat had impacted everyone in a positive, lasting way.

Interesting fact: The 19 men in attendance included nine Ontarians, one “lapsed Canadian” from Long Island, one German and eight Americans who had traveled from as far as Florida, Texas and Colorado.


Carol Lloyd’s book Creating a Life Worth Living describes the kind of creativity that involves human interaction. Certain creative types express themselves in intrinsically social ways, for example healers, teachers and directors. Lloyd calls the kind of person who organizes events a realizer. He or she relishes problem solving, provides driving energy and has good communication skills to build community.


I think a realizer is also someone who senses commonalities, likes bringing people together and gets satisfaction from seeing them interact.

When Jaye Crawford, Danny Ouellette and I coordinated this event, we had the benefit of advice and support from other men who had realized similar events elsewhere: Joe Wilcox of the Men’s Spring Knitting Retreat, Brady Robinder of the the Rocky Mountain Men’s Knitting Retreat and Barry VanderWeele of the Great Lakes Men’s Knitting Retreat.

But the spirit of these retreats comes much more from the diversity of men who attend them. It’s like a patchwork quilt where everyone provides a square.


Here are a few things we did together:

  • A choice of workshops including knitting a moebius cowl, shawl design, adapting sweater patterns for personal fit and knitting toe-up socks two at a time.
  • Visited Wellington Fibres goat farm, toured the spinning facility, bought a lot of gorgeous yarn and enjoyed the love of a baby kid born earlier that week.
  • Showed off our proudest recently completed knitting projects.
  • Raised money toward two scholarships to make our next event accessible to men with limited financial means. We did this by donating stuff from our yarn stashes to a silent auction where our friends then bid and bought the stuff.
  • Spent a lot of time just knitting, telling tales, sharing knitting advice and gaining inspiration from one another.
  • Sometimes, especially in the evening, the community room would fall almost silent as everyone focused on their work. It was an unusual but comfortable silence unlike anything I’ve experienced at other weekend events.


The group collectively expressed great appreciation for Loyola House Retreat Centre, our accommodation. The rooms were particularly comfortable and the meals got rave reviews.

As the group said its goodbyes, they left with strong support to repeat the retreat again next year. Most raised hands in support of starting a day earlier (on Thursday). So we have something bigger and better to look forward to.

Loyola House has room for 30 to 50 people. We didn’t achieve the minimum, but Loyola House kindly charged us only for the number who registered. Our challenge for next year will be to get 30 registered. Based on the enthusiasm from all who attended this year, I don’t think we’ll have trouble spreading word and generating enough interest for Men’s Knitting Retreat North next time.


The first Men’s Knitting Retreat North unfolds


Something remarkable happens when men get together and play with fibre. The first Men’s Knitting Retreat North kicked off yesterday afternoon with an informal meet and greet as guys arrived from as far away as Germany, Texas, Florida and Colorado. Ontario put on her best spring weather as if to show off to our international guests.

Old friends greeted happily and new ones forged quickly. Conversation ebbed and flowed, usually most lively around our friend Jeff Cohen, a champion of men’s knitting retreats. But everyone settled down quickly to knit or spin. It was a diverse group as shown by the wide range of projects people had brought: practical socks, splendid shawls, fluffy cowls. And there were several new knitters, too: guys who have only been knitting for a few weeks. We paired them with mentors in hope this weekend will help launch illustrious creative careers for them, too. Others here have been knitting 40, 50 years or more.

This is the first such retreat to take place in Canada. It was largely inspired by the Men’s Spring Knitting Retreat, which takes place at Easton Mountain near Albany, New York, each spring, and has spawned several other annual events around the world.

The photo above shows designer Leo Pola starting a shawl in flame colours, and my pal Benn Brisland (this is his first knitting retreat) preparing yarn for the workshop I’ll teach later this morning: how to knit a moebius cowl.

With weather so fine, undoubtedly we’ll take frequent breaks from structured activities to enjoy the sunshine and landscape at Loyola House Retreat Centre. AJ Young and Han Jacobs Meadway had the right idea within a few minutes of arrival yesterday.


Still, I especially look forward to seeing how creativity and friendships unfold over the course of the weekend. Men’s knitting retreats are good at building community. People who have attended different ones around the country tell me each has its unique flavour. I don’t want to anticipate too closely what ours will be like, but this weekend already has a restful, reflective feeling to it.

After this morning’s workshops and lunch, we’ll head on a field trip to Wellington Fibres to view a lot of baby goats and probably buy a lot of colourful mohair yarn and spinning fibre.