Toronto's Ravines: Walking the Hidden Country

W.J. Keith is a retired professor of English at the University of Toronto and author A Sense of Style: Studies in the Art of Fiction in English-Speaking Canada.

“I still think that Toronto is a city where sooner or later you find
yourself going down into a dark place in the ground.” So says Hugh
Hood, author of the evocative novel Reservoir Ravine (1985), in his
essay “The Governor’s Bridge is Closed.” Toronto’s Ravines is a
book that gives directions concerning how to explore these dark places.
Murray Seymour describes over 30 walks (the back-cover says 34, though I
count no more than 32) in ravines and river valleys stretching from
Etobicoke Creek to the Rouge River. He gives details of distance and how
to get there and back by public transport or car, and provides detailed
directions of the “stick-to-the-trail-that’s-closest-the-river”
variety. Interspersed are six “Interludes” that give additional
information about history, ecology, and so forth.

It sounds useful, and in many respects it is. I wish I could be
enthusiastic, but there are various aspects of the book that irritate
me. First and foremost, it is written in a chatty, jokey, and often, I
fear, vulgar style (“That ol’ UV, it ain’t what it used to be”;
“Slather on the anti-mosquito goop”). Why do writers of such books
assume that their readers will be lacking in the basics of literacy and
taste? Seymour also annoys me by anthropomorphizing beavers (“mom,”
“dad,” “the kids”). And his practical advice is often obvious
and banal: avoid poison ivy, wear suitable shoes or boots.

A few less serious matters: Seymour acknowledges that he hasn’t
covered Toronto ravines comprehensively, but has rather restricted his
attention to the “wilder” ones. Fair enough, but I’m sorry he
ignores most of the more central ravines such as Cedarvale and
Nordheimer (closest to where I live) and Reservoir Ravine with its
literary associations referred to above. (There’s nothing literary
here—no mention of the powerful ravine scene in Margaret Atwood’s
Cat’s Eye, for instance.) Also, it seems a pity that the pleasant
photographs of scenery and wild creatures, with one exception, go
unidentified.