a eulogy for Ontario Place

[September 10, 2024]

The photo sent a stab to my heart that has since permeated my body with a deep, sickly sadness. The West Island of Ontario Place, reduced to dirt. 850 mature trees obliterated overnight, under the sinister cover of darkness. 

Image posted by Paul F in Toronto Rave Community

I discovered the destruction in the least likely of places: the Toronto Rave Community (TRC) Facebook page. Someone posted a photo of the West Island with the caption “Unrecognizable from EI. Everything is gone…Thanks Doug Ford. RIP Ontario Place.” Electric Island (EI) is a two-day summertime dance party that began humbly on the Toronto Island in TK. After its popularity outgrew the Island’s capacity, the event migrated to different locations around Toronto, one of which being the West Island at Ontario Place, keeping the validity of its name. Sadly, I never attended EI at West Island, but lived vicariously through friends’ videos and stories. Towering trees adorned with twinkling lights and projected visuals, and the surrounding stretch of Lake Ontario, made for a magical forest festival vibe right in the city. 

Electric Island was one of many joyous events hosted at Ontario Place since the amusement park’s closure, disproving the claim that “no one uses the space.” Doug Ford’s Conservatives have repeatedly tried to present the lakefront urban paradise as an underused ghost town in their battle to develop a private spa that few will be able to afford to visit. “Underused” in the vernacular of the Conservatives means “not used for profit,” as, of course, they seek to privatize everything from our land to our healthcare. Therme spokespeople and pro-spa politicians have rambled about the “wellness” offered by the incoming spa — wellness that will cost a minimum of $40 per visit and billions of taxpayers’ dollars to build — disregarding the inconvenient truth that every day, people enhanced their wellness by walking, biking, swimming, and basking in the natural gifts Ontario Place offered. 

I’m not going to pretend that I don’t love a spa (BANYA!), but the decision to place one adjacent to neighbourhoods where coveted greenspace is limited and income is low, is absurd. Absurd and frankly on-brand with the Conservatives’ crusade against health. To pretend that you can buy wellness akin to what our Earth provides naturally is egregious. The sanctuary offered by the wreath of trees, the lapping lake, and the flourishing wildlife beckoned you to engage your senses, tune into your surroundings, slow your mind, and open your heart to the gifts of life. 

This was my own connection to Ontario Place, West Island specifically — my refuge of calm. After biking through the chaos of the city, crossing over Lakeshore Blvd felt like entering another realm of Toronto: this tucked away, serene, quirky realm that infused some personality in our overly commercialized city. The looming globes of the IMAX cinesphere and the abandoned, geometric buildings were a strange but welcome transition. Crossing over to West Island, I would be transported into this blissfully unique state and space: a harmony of the natural and supernatural. A haven of wilderness in the midst of a metropolis. 

On spectacular Fall days, those same trees that encircled the summertime EI dance floor glowed golden yellow. Rays of sunshine set red and orange Maples ablaze and grazed the green needles of conifers sweeping over the memories of my childhood. Artificial rocky mountains enclosing make-believe mines ran along the perimeter, and silos that once housed rocketships towered eerily but harmlessly, absorbed by the trees into the landscape. 

I would go to West Island when I needed to get away; when the busyness of the city felt suffocating or when I couldn’t concentrate at a job misaligned with my purpose. Or simply when I needed to connect with Nature. Despite, or even in spite of, the artificial components, the island’s energy was akin to a forest’s. I could sense the experiences and wisdom held by the Maples, Birches, Spruces, Cedars, and all 50 unique tree species rooted deep in the soil for 54 years. My mind felt settled and at peace. I could breathe. 

Venture deeper to find the Island’s hidden treasure: the abandoned log ride. What was once a childlike adventure was now an urban explorer’s paradise. Hopping on to the tracks was easy. Hugged by hollowed out crevices in the “mountains,” the ride’s route was a stable and steady climb, winding its way amongst the crowns of trees hanging over the rocky structure. Treading lightly on the slightly rotting wood, childhood memories flashed back of the excitement building, sitting in a tunnel of darkness, water sloshing the boat around, before emerging into sunlight and being greeted by a tilt and drop down the slope. Splashing and laughing with parents, friends, and/or strangers…simple, vibrant joys. In later years, I marvelled at the view around me, elevated amongst the trees.

The image of those trees’ remains broke my spirit. The sight of any environmental destruction is viscerally painful to me, as I feel a sense of connection with all life. But to witness the death of trees with whom I’d spent time, who held me in grief and joy, and who provided a serene respite (a spa-like atmosphere, one might say), feels closer to the primal pain of losing a loved one.

I’m not alone in these feelings. Ontario Place was a second home for many in the community, and the threat of development drew a determined cohort of people intent on protecting the beach they’d swam at in all seasons, the habitats where they’d sat in stillness, silently spotting wildlife, and the unique architecture which inspired their own artistic creations. 

I don’t exactly remember when plans for the Therme spa were unveiled, but once the battle started getting ugly — when Ford made it clear he would literally bulldoze ahead with zero adherence to due process or legalities — it became harder to visit and access the same semblance of peace I coveted so dearly. It is inherently unnatural to “fight” for land, though of course that’s what the modern-day world is built upon. Land belongs to no one, it is for us all. And any introduction of this “violence” into a natural space transforms it into something transactional; something disruptive and unnatural. I’d attended public meetings with representatives from Therme and architects who tried and failed to sway our opinion; unsuccessfully pacifying us with buzzwords about sustainability and public space and Indigenous-informed consultations. 

One unseasonably warm March day in 2023, I took a personal day from my 9-5 job that was sucking the soul out of me. I needed to not be in front of a screen. I needed to be surrounded by non-destructive, non-human-made entities. I needed to reconnect with my self. I brought a notebook and not much else, and sat at the abandoned lifeguard tower to watch the waves and bask in the sunlight streaming through the yellow leaves. But I was unable to settle. The energy wasn’t the anticipated wash of serenity that I’d hoped for. It was tainted with the gaslighting and sleaziness of the already hard-fought battle for Ontario Place.

Without this magical corner, Toronto lost its sparkle; the quickly vanishing pockets of nature in and around the city were too painful and suffocating for someone like me, who needs regular sunlight and forest frolicking to feel alive (don’t we all?).

Ontario Place’s demise was a last straw, and events surrounding it happened to coincide with my own exit to a province where plant and human wellness are greater priorities. My last action in a year rife with activism (2023-24 — enough said) was attending a roadside rally to protest the impending destruction indicated by an ominous black plywood barrier erected around the perimeter. Community members had gathered occasionally to decorate the wall — that Spacing magazine dubbed the world’s longest blackboard — with chalk drawings of soon-to-be exiled animals and clever quips about the hypocrisy of bulldozing a space that naturally fosters wellness in favour of a publicly subsidized multi-billion dollar monstrosity claiming to do the same. On the eve of my temporary departure to the mountains, flanked by my mom and my best friend, we raised handmade picket signs and cheered as cars honked in support; giving one last outcry of objection. 

On that personal day in early March, I wrote the following as I was leaving West Island, for one of the last times:

 I biked past the unmistakable sound of chainsaws felling a large tree. I hoped that it was leftover from a few weeks back; damaged from the thundersnow storm, but it also served as grim potential foreshadowing. As I rode off, I caught up and followed behind a bulldozer carrying the partial remains of the tree; branches flush with dark green needles slumped over its sides like a raggedy corpse. It truly felt like I was trailing the hearse of a funeral procession.
I paid my respects.