A Conversation with the Trees of the West Island of Ontario Place
On the evening of Wednesday, October 2, 2024, under the cover of darkness, heavy trucks pulled onto the West Island of Ontario Place. They began the removal of 865 trees.
Ontario Place is a public area comprised of three artificial islands that sit at the edge of Lake Ontario southwest of downtown Toronto. The removal of the trees was a first step for the provincial government to hand over the land of the west island to an Austrian corporation, Therme, for a lease of ninety-five years. Therme will build a glassed-in spa. The company runs a similar spa in nearby Whitby, which costs $134.47 with taxes for the most basic access for a day.
Ontario’s Minister of Infrastructure, Kinga Surma, justified this move by saying that Ontario Place, which closed as an attraction in 2011, was empty. “No one has been going there. It is not being enjoyed.”
This was not true.
The trees of Ontario Place were enjoying themselves. They were planted more than fifty years ago and formed part of a mature forest. The trees were home to many different kinds of birds, foxes, rabbits, and countless dandelions who showed their enjoyment by making it their home. It was also enjoyed by thousands of humans, another important part of the ecosystem, who biked, hiked, walked, and talked on the public grounds. All these animals reveled in a view of the lake that stretched to the horizon, the best swimming beach in the city, and wide stretches of open space.
Having grown up in Toronto, I have spent time at Ontario Place at different times in my life. When I was a child, Ontario Place was opened as a recreational site for family fun. I was knocked flat while running through cushions that dangled on chains, fell off the ropes course that looked weaved by an out-sized spider, and got whiplash on the bumper boats—all ordinary childhood experiences for those of us born in the Toronto of the 1970s.
As I grew, I started going to concerts at the Amphitheatre. I smoked weed in a corner, tried and failed to bring in beer, and made unsuccessful attempts to sneak to the front. I think I went to Laser Floyd, Pink Floyd’s music set to a light show, at the geodesic dome that sat in the middle of Ontario Place? Maybe. It’s hazy. But it was through the pandemic that I truly bonded with Ontario Place in a new way.
By 2020, during the pandemic, the attractions at Ontario Place were shut. Government indecision left the place with cracks in the pavement and some magic started taking root. Weeds were growing. Dandelions flocked in their thousands. There were quiet spaces, little knolls of grass, and the most spectacular view of the lake. The sunset was dazzling, the great orb dipping to the west, and washing the revelers in gold, orange, and pink. At night, away from competing lights, the stars were bright.
This oasis in the depths of the city was no secret. I was there along with thousands of other people looking for space to roam. It was magical to be close to the lake in a space that wasn’t commercialized. There weren’t thousands of signs bossing us around, there weren’t places we couldn’t be, things we had to buy, or admissions to pay. At Ontario Place, we could just be.
It was there, on the West Island, away from the constant hum of cars on the Lakeshore Expressway, that I found quiet in the city. I started being able to hear what the birds were saying. I could listen to the bees. The fish were too stealthy, but I dipped my fingers into the water as an attempt at communication. The dandelions were often busy, noisy, and so focused on changing that they can’t talk for long. It took a while, but when I sat for long enough, I could hear other voices—I started speaking with the trees.
On Sunday, September 29th, I went to Ontario Place for my regular walk around the West Island. I knew there were plans to cut down the trees, though I held out hopes for legal or political intervention. I had my phone.
On a whim, I asked a tree if I could record our conversation. Connected by an intricate network of roots, this tree assured me that permission couldn’t be given for only one tree. When I asked them questions, they only respond as “we.” Talking to trees is all or nothing.
At the time, I had no idea that the province would order the cutting down of the trees within days. While it would have added urgency to my questions, in a way, I’m glad I didn’t know the date. I would have strained to fit in every last question. As it was, I listened. I leaned closer and tried to hear what the trees had to say.
What follows is our conversation. Some of the questions and responses have been lightly edited for length and clarity.
Claire Cameron: Have you heard the plans?
West Island Trees: We stand all day and sway and listen.
CC: What do you think of being cut down? You’ve been here for more than fifty years.
WIT: Don’t weep for the trees. It’s the fox we worry about. Have you seen him? A tiny little thing. He has been busy peeing on every root, curb, and piece of grass to try to mark himself a territory. He has aspirations. It’s quite obvious he wants to start a family here.
The birds, too. They’ve built nests, hatched eggs, and reared their babies here. If they cut us down, where will the birds go? They will be circling and worrying. Have you seen the black ants? Their colony is a huge success.
It’s interesting you are focused on the trees, actually. There are thousands of animals that live here, too, but you haven’t asked about them?
CC: That’s part of the problem, what we don’t see. Our leader might be the worst offender. He said the island is empty, that it’s abandoned.
WIT: Ah, yes. Of course. We’ve heard it all before. For the past few hundred years or so, that’s been the line. That’s when things started to change. Anywhere that people want to justify chopping down trees, that’s what they say. They say it’s empty.
As if you are the first ones in this land? As if there is nothing that lives here? We shouldn’t laugh, but please understand that our lineages go back thousands and thousands of years. There have been people living along this lake for centuries. It’s almost cute that you, the tree-cutters, come along and think you are the first ones. If you can’t see yourselves in something, then it doesn’t exist.
CC: You call us tree-cutters?
WIT: As we see it, that’s what’s remarkable about your kind. Maybe you planted us, but then you’ll also cut us down on a whim…wait, you feel guilty!
CC: I do?
WIT: When humans have emotions, they emit hormones. It’s easy to notice them.
CC: You can tell my mood?
WIT: Don’t be so shocked. We stand around all day and night. There is plenty of time to observe what you do. I sense your moods on my leaves.
CC: Okay, okay, yes, I do feel guilty. You said there was a change in the people who came in the past few hundred years. That’s when my family came to Canada, so I guess you are talking about my ancestors?
WIT: I know humans make all sorts of distinctions between themselves. To us, most of it is incidental. Skin colour? Creed? Religion. No, it’s humans with combustible engines that have made the difference to us. Your relatives with axes were fine. It’s these ones with motors that run on gas. Those are the kind that have changed things. It’s when the motors came, that was what made such a big difference.
Remind us, what are you cutting us down for again?
CC: A spa.
WIT: A what?
CC: It’s a bit like the lake, a big pool full of water. Except not as big as the lake. And the water will be piped in from somewhere else. It will be contained in a cement pool. There will be glass over the top of it, so we won’t feel the wind or see the sky. And people will have to pay to go inside.
WIT: Will there be trees?
CC: Maybe they will be made of plastic.
WIT: What will people do there?
CC: Swim in the water.
WIT: Well … at least the water will be nice?
CC: I guess it will have chlorine in it to stay clean. It will smell like chemicals, probably.
WIT: The lake is part of the largest fresh water systems in the world. It’s a wonder. It’s a living, breathing entity with moods of its own. And this is what you do?
CC: Now I’m embarrassed.
WIT: Yes, I sense it on my leaves. Not a good place for a fox either. The bees will hate it. Some of the birds might find a way to make do. The pigeons will like the garbage containers. And the Seagulls will get in fights over who gets to pluck the hot dog from the little children.
The Canadian Geese will love it, though. They’ll enjoy pooping all over the glass. They do that on purpose, did you know that?
CC: I suspected as much.
WIT: But this is where it’s our turn to feel guilty. All these plants and animals depend on us to pick a good place. We are markers of good conditions. If we are in a place for fifty years, like we have been on this West Island, it’s meaningful and significant. It means the soil is rich, there is water flowing, and the sun can find the ground for long enough to allow growth.
The ability to stay in one place for a hundred years or more requires a kind of intellect. We don’t make a decision to stay in one place—we earn our way. To us, this is wisdom. When a good decision lasts for long enough to prove itself day after day. The result is a life. The result is a tree. We don’t say it’s a good place, we show it by existing.
If we are sad about getting cut down, it’s because we are letting down the plants and animals that trusted our decision. That fox decided he would come here because of the trees. He used us as a marker of judgement. He trusted our wisdom. The same used to go for your kind.
CC: What do you mean?
WIT: We store our history in our trunks. We grow layer after layer and that’s how we remember what’s happened. When one tree dies, it decomposes and becomes mulch for the next tree. That’s how we pass memories on.
Your kind used to use our roots and bark to understand what a place was like. They observed our position, our size, our health, and took these as a measure of their own lives. Living near the trees offered them protection. It was a kind of insurance. If the trees were wise enough to pick this place, then it had what your kind needed to live. Good fortune was more likely to come.
And when we are cut, if there isn’t a chance to decompose and grow into something new, then the memories we hold are lost.
CC: You’re saying we are short-sighted?
WIT: Perhaps this is the vanity of a tree, a thing with roots—we want to be admired and valued. For something that lives rooted in one place like we do, it’s flattering to have a gathering of other beings around. We like attracting other creatures. It’s our job to mark the good spots. The people who were here before, a hundred years ago or more, they cut trees, but fewer. They used what they needed. They had to expend effort with axes. They allowed us to fall in place much more often.
When we look at what you do, cutting, then pouring concrete, it is slightly confusing. It’s almost like you don’t know…
CC: Know what?
WIT: What is good for the trees is good for you? It seems so basic to us. If a landscape has trees, it’s a good place. We clean the air, hold the water, make a place for plants to grow and animals to prosper. That includes you.
CC: We don’t think of ourselves that way.
WIT: As needing trees?
CC: As animals.
WIT: But you are?
CC: Yes, I know.
WIT: Oh. Hmm…
CC: I guess we think of ourselves as exceptions.
WIT: Exceptions to needing clean water, good soil, and fresh air?
CC: Maybe…when you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?
WIT: This is what we said at the beginning of our conversation—don’t weep for the trees. You poor things have enough problems. We ’ll be fine in the long run. We have deep roots and our network is vast.
Your existence, it’s much more precarious. Given that you are trying to replicate a great lake with a small cement container of chlorinated water, it might be time to start worrying.
And that little fox. Someone needs to start worrying about him. When we are cut down, will you please make sure he has somewhere to go?
Photo graciously provided by Mak from Unsplash.
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