The chance to find out didn’t arise until a Victoria Day weekend decades later. In town that’s when people swarm outdoors to camp and garden for the first time of the year. Out on Georgian Bay, however, fog can play havoc with boating in late May. That Sunday in the 1960s was calm, clear and sunny. Perfect to get to the Tomb, penetrate the interior, climb to the top of the mound, and maybe even commune with the spirit of Kitchikewana.
In our little boat four of us sped across the calm, clear water to the east side of the Tomb. Yellow reefs would abruptly loom from the green depths, then disappear again, too far down to cause us any damage. We moored the boat close to the beach. Looking around, we could see we had the entire shore to ourselves. We shouldered our backpacks, took a compass bearing to the west, and plunged into the woods.
Last year’s dead leaves crunched underfoot. Except for a few buds on the shrubbery, new grass shoots and blooming trilliums, there was little greenery. Seeing around the trees was easy. Still, not many metres into the woods it began to feel otherworldly.
We trekked on, wondering when the ground would begin to rise up the giant’s hill. But ahead we could only make out what looked like a solid wall of tree trunks. It was the hump — a steep tree-covered slope rising sharply in the island’s interior.
We paused there briefly to catch our breath. Not a sound, other than leaves crackling beneath our shoes, disturbed the woods. The atmosphere bordered on spooky.
The hump now became the Tomb. On top, it was flat as far as the eye could see, and was strewn with boulders, some as massive as a cabin. Tall silver birches and other hardwoods soared above us.
Without leaves yet, their branches filtered the afternoon sunlight pouring from above. Around it blue sky gave colour to the otherwise gray, brown and white landscape. The silence up there was even more profound. We spoke in whispers.
We climbed onto one of the large boulders where a sun spot reached, sat, and just absorbed the stillness. Occasionally rustling leaves would echo among the trees — probably a chipmunk searching for seeds on the forest floor — but that was the only sound amid these acres of woodland. Time drifted by as we each enjoyed our personal nirvana in that tranquil setting.
Of course, it was the spell of Kitchikewana’s spirit upon us. We were pleased to realize that he had found a place of such beauty and peace in which to spend eternity. We were grateful for the hour or two that we had been refreshed there. The message of those moments has stayed with us over all the years since.
