Cottage Daze (14 page)

In a Fog

The fog itself was not really a problem. It became an issue only because it rolled in, thick and impenetrable, on the night of the lake's annual progressive dinner. A progressive dinner is a multi-course affair, one that you begin with appetizers and cocktails at one cottage before you motor on to the next cottage for salads. Still on schedule, you depart en masse to a third cottage for the main course, with wine. With the schedule becoming increasingly harder to maintain, and the talking becoming progressively louder, it is off to a fourth cottage for dessert, special coffees, and after-dinner aperitifs.

You get the idea: a designated boat driver is a necessity. This had been factored in; the fog had not. Nor had the bevy of inebriated back-seat boat drivers who knew the lake like the back of their collective hands.

The evening began at the stroke of five, with cocktails and hors d'oeuvres at the Stewarts'. Everyone was polite and in high fashion, as Bert swung through with a drink tray and Martha explained each one of her delectable creations. At six o'clock exactly, the loquacious group leader, Idele Chatter, clapped her hands and urged everyone to finish up, it was time to be off to the Rommanes' for salad. The first tentacles of mist came creeping in from the north arm.

At 7:00 p.m. sharp, the boats meandered down to the east end of the lake, where the Sanderses had prepared Chicken Cordon Bleu. The fog had blotted out all traces of the north shore, and, when the group set off merrily at 8:30 for Crocker's Island and dessert, there was general joking and laughing about the limited visibility. Norm and Betty met the group at the dock with a lantern, even though darkness would not descend on the lake for another hour.

By 10:00 it was dark, and the fog was as thick as the proverbial pea soup. It was hard to see your own running lights. The boats left in a haphazard fashion, heading for the final destination, the party at the Cookes'. Joan Cooke had borrowed a number of records from the several ports of call, and had the LPs stacked on her knees as she headed out around Crane Island in the Crockers' boat. Betty was navigating for Norm, who could barely see the glow of the burning tobacco in his own pipe. “This way, more to the left, hold the course, veer right … hurry up, Norm, or we will miss the dancing.”

Old Norm ran his powerful runabout right up onto the middle of Sawdust Island, took his pipe out of his mouth, tapped it over the side, and said not a word. The stack of records flew in all directions, fluttering down into the lake. Betty landed on her rump in the back of the boat, her stockinged legs sticking straight in the air.

I want to learn how to fly.

Betty and Joan screamed for help, but nobody seemed to hear. Some had found their way to the party, others zigzagged around the lake, lost in the fog. Joan recalled hearing the Chatters' boat idling past this way and that. Mitch was lying on the back seat with a bottle clasped lovingly in his hands, singing “Row, row, row your boat,” something that was heard, along with Idele's wagging tongue, coming and going.

Her tale finished, Ms. Cooke set down her teacup. I helped her up out of her Muskoka chair on the dock and into the boat for the journey back to her mainland cabin.

My kids had found some old long-playing records while snorkelling around little Sawdust Island, an uninhabited spit of rock off our island's west point. They had no clue what they were. Some of the vinyl was in bits. Those still intact were worn thin like paper Frisbees, their jackets long since disintegrated in the water. I knew what they were, but not how they got there. I did know who to ask. Joan Cooke was one of those wise old-timers on the lake who make it their business to know everything.

“I remember the fog,” Joan said as she left. “Remember that night well, 1957 … wonder we weren't all killed. Lake folk were a lot more fun in those days.”

Nature's Stage

“All the world's a stage,” and here, in cottage country, we are blessed to share that stage with nature.

It was rather a strange sight. My wife and I were driving near our home a few years back when we caught sight of two coyotes circling in a roadside meadow. Their heads were low, backs arched, and tails straight out like flags. There was something in the field they were stalking. We pulled over to watch. Suddenly, as the coyotes closed in, their quarry spread its wings wide in a ferocious display of size. We recognized the hunted as a red-tailed hawk, injured and grounded. The canines had the intention of making this predator their prey.

Now, I'm usually one to let nature run its own course, but my wife felt badly about this mismatch and ordered me to go to the bird's aid. I grabbed my camera as an assault weapon and into the breach I ran, hollering like a lunatic. The terrified coyotes ran for cover. The red-tailed hawk, rather than being thankful, found a new target for his anxiety. He fluttered his massive wings and bounced towards me. To show that my intentions were more honourable than those of the previous antagonists, I knelt down and spoke quietly to the frightened bird. While my wife drove quickly home to get a blanket and to make a couple of phone calls, I took some wonderful photos. I had never been so close to such a magnificent hawk. The red-tail gradually calmed, his outstretched wings slowly closed.

Knowing that if we left the hawk there it would not survive, we carefully captured him in a heavy blanket and drove to a nearby veterinarian for advice. We were told that the hawk had damaged wing feathers that would heal in time. If we could keep him safe for about a month, the hawk should fully recover. We took the red-tail home and housed him in a spare chain-link dog kennel, six by ten feet, and eight feet high. The enclosure was open at the top, so when the hawk was well enough, he had the freedom to leave. We caught mice in a trap to feed our patient. The bird would never eat while we watched, but he must have been thankful, because the mice always disappeared.

After two weeks the hawk got braver and more mobile. He would screech at us when hungry, and moved off his perch and around the enclosure. After just three weeks of rehab, the beautiful bird disappeared. Healthy again, the red-tailed hawk took to the skies.

I must admit, we were quite pleased with ourselves. We had stepped in to help this beautiful bird, and were successful in our cause. I wondered whether, in some heartwarming Disney-esque way, the red-tailed hawk had formed a special bond with us, his protectors. Maybe, someday, when I was in trouble, our friend the hawk would fly in to save me.

Apparently not.… As I worked outside the next day I heard a terrified cacophony of clucking and confusion coming from our chicken coop. (Yes, we used to raise a few chickens.) I ran to the rescue, just in time to see our hawk flying off with a young chicken clutched lovingly in his talons. Who could blame the bird? As the hawk had pecked fussily at our trap-killed mice, across the way he had watched, day after day, our nice, plump chickens strutting about in their coop. He must have thought us very poor hosts indeed.

In most places it is solely a human drama that plays out in people's lives, on the streets around them and on the nightly news. As cottagers and those living in cottage country, we are blessed with a region where we often see moose, black bears, foxes, deer, groundhogs, rabbits, beavers, loons, herons, ducks, and various other splendid creatures. These birds and animals are the players who take a leading role on our stage, and the production is grand.

Autumn Colours

Back to School

Summer is over. Well, not officially, but the children are back to school. When I was a youngster, summers seemed to last forever. Now they disappear in the blink of an eye. It's not just me, either — everyone I talk to complains that they do not know where the summer has gone.

The kids are excited about seeing their friends, even though the desire to be back in the classroom is not something that they would openly admit to. I am a little sad. I know that having the children board the school bus every morning will leave me with more quiet time to work. I also know that the lake is beautiful in autumn, and we will escape to the cottage at every weekend opportunity. Still, those fun family times at the cottage this year are drawing to a close. It seems like only yesterday that we were opening up the place.

Perhaps summers seem to go by more quickly because we are busier now. We juggle our cottage time with soccer schedules, hockey camps, dance competitions, family obligations, and, well, work. We fill up our calendar. Then we fill up our cottage days with a list of projects that we need to get done. In the end it becomes a race against the clock, and we watch the end of summer closing in on us with shocking speed.

As youngsters, we would wake up mid-morning in the boathouse bunkie, grab a little breakfast, and then look at each other and say, “So, what should we do today?” We had no schedule, no to-do list, no day-timer with pages filled. We enjoyed each day to its fullest, and approached each day with no expectations. The days seemed long, and I can only imagine how long they would have seemed if we had gotten out of bed at a decent hour.

To return to those endless summers of our youth, perhaps we need only to act like children again.

Our children are the same. They run around the forest for an hour playing some adventure game. They huddle and ask the question, “What do you want to do now?” They go for a swim, go water-skiing or canoeing. They find enough level ground for a baseball match. They participate in some form of Cottage Olympics. Their days are filled with activity from the time they crawl out of bed in the morning until the late hour when they play a board game at the kitchen table or tell a ghost story at the bonfire.

A theory begins to form in my mind. To get back to those seemingly endless summers we enjoyed as youngsters, perhaps we need only act like children again! To test this thesis, I decide to join in on the Cottage Olympics. My children, their cousins, and their friends are participating in a triathlon today, running the trail that follows the shoreline, swimming out to and back from the swim raft, and finally kayaking around the island. The children are all a-twitter at the prospect of their dad simply surviving, but I am an athlete from way back. The early run goes well, and I imagine myself breaking all cottage records. Then my legs start getting a little heavy, and I stumble over the last few rocks and roots.

I peel off my runners and dive into the lake, doing what I fancy is a beautiful front crawl — that is, until my weighty legs begin to sink. The front crawl becomes a breast stroke, then a side stroke, and then, as it gets close to becoming just a stroke, I manage the last few metres with a dog paddle. The children steady the kayak for the last leg of the race, and, as I jump nimbly into the craft, I perform half of an Eskimo roll that I simply assumed was part of the event. I empty the kayak and then start the paddle around the island. I will later contend that the wind picked up against me, and this is why my time is slightly behind my six-year-old's.

For the next two days I struggle around the cottage with aching lungs, sore limbs, and tender muscles. These painful days seem longer somehow, so I know that my endless summer theory is correct. Still, when they try to convince me to join in on the decathlon, I politely decline. Unfair, I say, that an athlete of my advanced ability should be involved. Instead, I settle in with a beer and the stopwatch as official timer. Summers that seem to last forever are best left to the experts.

I'm a Lumberjack

There are a couple of activities at the cottage that always draw spectators. One is backing the boat and trailer down the boat ramp into the lake. Men appear out of the forest from nowhere to watch. As you drive slowly up to the public boat launch there seems to be nobody around. This pleases you greatly, as it makes the whole process much easier. You are an expert when unwatched, and can swing the truck around with a flourish, throw it into reverse, and back truck and trailer straight as an arrow down the narrow ramp.

So you slink up to the launch and spin the vehicle and trailer around, all the while watching for onlookers. Your wife offers to jump out to help guide you back. You acquiesce, because it is easier, though you know that she will stand in a blind spot and become yet another obstruction for your driving. If she does suddenly and frighteningly appear within the view of your truck mirrors, she will be making such contorted signals that you will really have no clue as to what she is trying to convey. Still, you let her help out from the outside, because it is better than having her try to help from the inside. Inside she will give directions and lean forward to look out of your review mirrors herself, so that when you throw a glance to the passenger side mirror, you see only the back of her lovely new hairdo.

Just as you throw the truck into reverse to begin the simple procedure, you look around and are startled by the gathering throng of men. They appear from everywhere — some have tools still in hand, some carry a fishing rod or lug along a stack of wood in their arms. Some walk in hip waders, others drive four-wheelers. The crowd comes out of the woodwork, like an old episode from The Twilight Zone where the mob gathers to stare at a traffic accident.

The staring assemblage has a certain effect on your ability to drive. It is like the first tee on a golf course, when you lead off with what will be your worst drive of the day, shanking the ball almost directly right before listening to the mock applause of the beer-toting spectators lounging on the clubhouse deck.

Normally you are quite adept at backing up trailers. Now, watched, you zigzag down the ramp, fishtail your trailer, jackknife, and pull forward and back, all the while watching your wife's handy gesticulations. The gathering of men greet your attempt with either a silent nod (meaning thumbs-up) or a grimace and a slow shake of the head (meaning thumbs-down). Then the crowd vanishes back into the trees. It is like they were never really there.

My brother-in-law works for the coast guard out of Vancouver. Their main facility on the Pacific sits next to a very public boat launch. When each yacht, sailboat, and motorboat arrives to be backed down the ramp, these government workers gather to hold up scorecards, like the honest judges in a figure skating competition. When a rich captain jackknifes his million-dollar yacht, he is able to stare out at scores ranging from 1 to 3, and see his tax dollars at work.

The other cottage activity sure to gather a crowd of skillful onlookers is the felling of a tree. Like the athlete competing in the big game, the pressure is on. They watch you set the notch, check the wind, judge the lean and the warp of the trunk, and then cut the hinge, all the while nodding their heads in agreement or shaking their heads in quiet disbelief. All the watchers are, of course, experts.

The best lumberjack can drop the tree on a dime. I'm not bad with a saw; I can carve up wood to build a log table for the dock or a big log frame for a bed in the A-frame tent. In backcountry camps I have sculptured a hewn log easy chair with a chainsaw and axe. I can usually drop a tree approximately where I want it. Sometimes when I have people watching, I try to hurry the process to impress the spectators. That is usually a bad idea.

Usually I'm quite accurate with my tree felling. At other times, my dad is watching. Even as we get on in years, we always want to please our dads, make them proud of what we've learned in life. Usually wanting to show him my expertise with a chainsaw only leads to him having to scramble out of the way of a tree that has inexplicably tumbled backwards, the opposite direction from what was intended, the tree only slightly missing his scurrying backside.

Such is life. We hit the hole in one while golfing solo. We score our hat trick or hit that grand slam when our parents miss one of our games. When we want so badly to please them we almost drop a heavy maple tree on their heads. They love us anyway.

Inspector Gadget

Let me be totally honest, I am not very fond of heights. That is why stepping off a mountain at four thousand metres with nothing but nylon webbing separating one from certain death would seem a strange thing for me to be doing. Still, there I was, paragliding over the Aeswritch Glacier and getting a bird's-eye view of the Alps and the neat, orderly nature of the Swiss landscape.

I suppose I deserved this. My wife and I had become friends with a Swiss couple, Alain and Nicole, who live just outside Zurich. They had joined me on a dog sled expedition some twelve years earlier. I had taken them out into Canada's wintery wilds and forced them to brave frigid temperatures that dropped into the minus-forties. I gave them their own sled and sent them careening down a mountain trail pulled by a team of excited huskies.

Next up was a summer visit when I guided them around British Columbia's Bowron Lakes canoe route. I forced these novice canoeists to tackle some whitewater, high winds, nasty whitecaps, and pelting rain on a week's canoe excursion. In the evening I threw in a grumpy grizzly, a mother moose, and some of my camp cooking, not knowing which was the most dangerous.

So now they have encouraged us to visit them, and have finally found payback. There I was, facing my fears, spinning like a kite in space, ten thousand feet above the ground. The day before, my wife and I had been to the top of the Matterhorn, in a manner of speaking. Aboard a helicopter, we drifted close enough to the summit to see the ropes that dangle down the south face and the climbers' hut, used as a resting place before adventurers set off for the summit. The helicopter had taken us climbing vertically up the rock wall, breaking over the crest before plummeting down the other side in a stomach-churning joyride, making me long for solid ground under my feet.

That was last spring. In the fall, our Swiss friends came to our cottage for the first time. They experienced a Canadian Thanksgiving there, and enjoyed the vibrant autumn colours of Muskoka. They were amazed. I had threatened them with bungee jumping, hot air ballooning, or a barrel ride over Niagara Falls. In the end, I decided to call a truce and give them the relaxing peace and quiet of cottage country.

We did get a little active. We enjoyed a dinner cruise on Lake Muskoka aboard the Segwun. We did some canoeing and a little hiking in Algonquin Park. The most dangerous thing we did on this visit was to jump into the chilly lake waters on an October afternoon; more dangerous for me, because Alain favours those European-style swimsuits.

Whatever adventure we set out on, our Swiss friends showed up looking like they had just been in a photo shoot for National Geographic. Off on our hike on a drizzly day, I had an old, tattered oilskin slicker on. It went well with my green rubber rain pants that are too short, ending somewhere just below my knee, making me look like Li'l Abner. Alain was smartly attired in a breathable Jack Wolfskin GORE-TEX jacket and pants, with matching gloves and state-of-the-art, battery-operated hiking boots.

I am not a techy kind of guy. My kids are always disgusted with me as I try to figure out how to use my cellphone. Alain, on the other hand, loves technology and has every modern gadget known to man. The watch on his wrist was right out of the world of James Bond. It checked his heart rate, chimed when he needed to hydrate, and let him know what time it would be if he were hiking in Switzerland or in China, as opposed to Muskoka.

He had a Swiss Army knife on his belt with enough tools and implements for it to fully replace everything in your cottage work shed. His BlackBerry doesn't work at our cottage, which unsettled him, but his GPS was in fine form, and allowed him to find his way to and from the privy and around the shoreline of our three-acre island. He carried it in his hand throughout the day's hike, and stared at it as much as at the beautiful scenery.

We climbed up to a rock precipice that provides a splendid view over the lake and valley. “How high up do you think we are?” asked my wife.

“Oh, I'd say somewhere between three and four hundred metres,” I responded.

“Actually we are at three hundred twenty-seven,” pointed out my resourceful friend, looking at the little gadget in his hand. “Perhaps we should enjoy a little rest. My watch tells me my heart rate is a little high after that climb. So does your heavy breathing,” he added, smiling.

Of course I made due fun of him for his dependence on technology. I snickered and rolled my eyes, drawing the ire of my most tolerant spouse. I sat down on a jagged rock and pulled out a bottle of water and an energy bar. Alain slipped off his day pack, unlashed a metal tube from the side, and from it flipped open a number of lightweight, comfortable cushioned stools. His small pack transformed itself into an elaborate picnic basket, complete with a bottle of red wine, glasses, an assortment of fanciful cheeses, and French bread. The ladies sidled up to him.