Charles Joseph Sauriol: Moving, Memory, and the Moonlit Valley
This botanical history post was featured on The Daily Gardener podcast:
September 14, 1938
Dearest readers,
Let us journey together into the quiet, moonlit world of Charles Joseph Sauriol—Canada’s treasured naturalist, author, and the tireless “Mr. Conservation” whose life’s work was preserving the wild green ribbons of Ontario and beyond.
On this night in 1938, Sauriol paused on his lawn at half past midnight, the Don Valley silvered and serene, its timelessness momentarily folding July and September together.
He mused in his diary,
“Moving is transplanting, and transplanting causes most plants to droop momentarily. We always feel a trifle sad about pulling up stakes...”
Few have chronicled the delicate marriage of memory and place as beautifully as Sauriol.
Born in Toronto in 1904, son of an engineer who straightened the lower Don, Charles grew into an eighth-generation Canadian whose summers were spent deep in the Don River’s embrace.
His early romance with the woods and wild led him to spend decades saving the valley from urban sprawl, founding and guiding conservation organizations, and raising millions to acquire and restore natural lands.
Sauriol’s dedication went far beyond advocacy—he was a hands-in-the-dirt caretaker, a chronicler of wildflowers and seasons, a summer cottager, and a planter of trees on former railway land. Through steam excursions, newsletters, and careful notes in his journals, he fueled not only the preservation of the Don but the imaginations of fellow naturalists.
From his stewardship sprang four nature reserves and parks, as well as a host of other tributes, including the Charles Sauriol Conservation Reserve, a living legacy in his beloved valley.
On that late summer night, with the scent of memory and moonlight in the air, Sauriol spoke not just for himself but for all who have ever loved a patch of green, mourned its loss, and hoped for its return.
His words remind us: when life requires us to "pull up stakes," we may droop, but given time and care—bathed in the steady silver of moon and memory—we, too, may find roots again.
