Cottage Daze (6 page)

For now I'll enjoy watching a young lady and her kayak — and I'm happy that cellphones don't work out here.

Summertime Escape

Leave It to Beaver

A friend of mine was attacked by a beaver. Now, don't laugh, it's true. He told us so himself. We were at the cottage and there were a few of us, outdoor types, sitting around the campfire exchanging bear stories, when he joins in to tell us how he was nearly mauled by this plump rodent. You can imagine our mirth at his little yarn — we all shared a good laugh. He was serious, though, and visibly shaken recalling the experience.

This friend is a forestry worker, a consultant. As such, he spends much of his time in the outdoors. He is in the bush through all seasons and in any weather, sunshine, rain, and snow. Until the time of the attack, his only worries were the occasional black bear, and the blackflies and mosquitoes that torment him each spring.

He has a dog that accompanies him on his wilderness treks, a Siberian husky that loves the outdoors, the adventure, and the exercise. Well, not too long ago, as he was busy working in the bush, our friend heard the dog barking nearby. Now, huskies are not natural barkers, so he deemed the disturbance worth investigating.

He found the dog facing off with a rather large beaver — the beaver was confidently eyeing the canine. Fearing for the beaver's well-being, this caring forestry worker called off his well-behaved husky and ordered it to stay at a distance. He was fascinated to see this beaver so far from any water. There was no pond, lake, or river in the near vicinity. As he was admiring the pluck of the adventurous mammal, he was shocked to find himself under attack.

The beaver charged, and our poor friend was quickly backpedalling. The awkward-looking attacker darted in with more speed than seemed possible. Our hero dipped and dodged, weaved and wobbled, until he found himself with his back to a tree. The beaver gnashed his large front teeth. It seemed like curtains for our friend, but like a well-written movie, he found a large stick lying by his right hand. Just in the nick of time, he stuck out the broken branch and held the ferocious creature at bay.

The beaver backed off a little, and, seizing the opportunity, our brave forester sprinted off. He did not look behind him, did not worry about his dog, did not stop until he had reached the safety of his truck. You can imagine how we laughed when we heard this campfire tale, giggled until our bellies hurt. I feel sorry for laughing now.

I have shared my friend's scary account with others around the lake, and in turn have been given several similar stories of suspense involving the ferocious flat-tailed tree-eater. One poor fellow required stitches in his backside. A beaver had blocked his way over a bridge. He left the safety of his vehicle to gently shoo the cute critter from his path. The beaver charged, and the man turned and ran. The fleet-footed furball caught him, pinning the man between truck and bridge guard rail as he struggled to open his door. The beaver latched on to the startled victim's posterior, gnawing on it like it was a poplar tree.

An old rancher friend from the west told me of his own experience. When out riding his horse, repairing fence, he caught site of a beaver far from any pond. Before the cowboy could spit a tobacco plug, the creature had lunged at his mount's front legs. The beaver put the run on the horse in such an expert fashion that the cowpoke considered training the agile rodent for cutting cattle.

Now, we all have our cottage stories of Castor canadensis — of the damage they cause, the trees they thin, the marsh systems they help create, or simply the sound of their wide tails smacking water on a still summer's night. What has put me in mind of these violent tales is that today, as I am writing this, it is Canada Day, a day when we salute our country and feel pride for our flag. It is true we often complain that, as national symbols, the Americans have their bald eagle, the Russians their fearsome bear, and the Brits their king of the beasts, the lion. We have our amphibious rodent. Though these bucktoothed engineers may be industrious, hard-working, and skilled, they have never been credited as ferocious warriors.

“Well, now you know the rest of the story.”

It is so quiet and peaceful here — it seems as if you have the world all to yourself.

First Job

My first job was for $1.25 an hour, cutting the extensive grass around the resort at the end of our lake. I would whack the high weeds along the lakeshore with a curved metal scythe and manhandle the smoky, belching gas mower over the unruly lawn that surrounded the wood cabins.

Sometimes I would shred some bramble with the mower blades and cut into a hornets' nest. The boss would laugh at the sight of me sprinting up the gravel laneway. When there was not much wind, the blackflies and mosquitoes would buzz around my head, landing in the sweat streams that flowed from my stringy hair. Hey, this was the seventies, and I had a mullet. What can I say? I had just turned fifteen years of age, and this was the dream job, away from town, close to the cottage.

At noon I would sit on the steep shoreline eating my bagged lunch, all the while looking over with envy at our island. I could see my siblings and cousins running wild, chasing each other through the trees, following their imaginations. In the heat of the afternoon, as I put fibreglass patches on old rental canoes, I saw the gang out with the boat water-skiing. They skied in circles and figure eights, and when they came close to the mainland they would wave at me. I would wave back.

They envied me for my work and the money I was making. I envied them their freedom. If I stared out too long the boss would yell down to me, “Done those canoes yet? If you'd rather be over there playing, you best go, I'm not paying you to daydream.”

I spent the summer staining cabins and painting trim, moving rocks and splitting and stacking wood. When boats sidled up to the dock, I would stop what I was doing, run down, and top up their tanks. They would ask me if I was one of the Ross boys from the island. They would tell me about where the fish were biting on the lake. They would warn me of the big storm that would hit the next day. I would take the information home, and sometimes it would be right.

When people wandered into the little confectionery store, I would act as clerk or cashier. Sometimes I would exchange a couple of hours of work for some ice cream bars for my family at the cottage.

At five o'clock quitting time, as I stored the metal weed whacker and the ancient lawn mower, I would see our boat leave the dock and head my way. It was a great feeling, the end of the workday. I would get back to the cabin and throw on my swim shorts — wash off the day's dust and grime in the lake. Dad would take me for a spin on the skis. Mom would clang the dinner bell.

I remember it as a summer when I was leaving my childhood days behind. After a five-day workweek, I would be given fifty dollars. I had never seen so much money. My wages went to a new slalom ski from Canadian Tire, bright orange with a yellow dragon. It still hangs in the boathouse today, and when I take it down and see the cracking and rotting thick rubber footholds, feel the scratches and chips that are a testament to years of use, memories of my first job, and an amazing summer, come flooding back.

The Perfect Storm

The day had been hot and humid. The lake had been calm. We enjoyed some swimming and skiing, and now, at dusk, we light a driftwood fire on the rocky point.

Before we see the sky darkening up the north arm, we feel the weather changing. It seeps into your senses, and your mind tells you that the last time you felt this way, a storm was coming. Not to let you feel too good about your instincts, however, you realize that it was an hour ago that you noticed the loons calling each other in a frantic way; now they have disappeared. Your dogs snuck quietly away from the bonfire and have undoubtedly crawled under the porch. Only the gulls play in the approaching blow, riding high on the wind and then arcing back low over the water.

The wind quickens with shocking speed. It blows the water into a rugged chop, whitecaps curl over, and trees begin to bend. Lightning at first lights the distant sky like small explosions. As it moves down the lake, you can see the jagged forks touch the water. The storm gets closer. Waves crash into the rocky shoreline. A lone fishing boat motors quickly for shore.

We douse the fire with our bucket, although I am certain that the coming rain would do the job for us, and then we gather up everything and head for the cabin. Towels are pulled from the clothesline and thrown into a basket. The children secure their toys and tubes, and I make sure that the boat is covered and made tight to the dock. The wind howls through with more velocity, so we have to shout to hear each other. I tie down the canvas door of the kid's wall tent. The flag flaps noisily.

Here at the cottage, a storm brings a wild and astonishing beauty.

We light the propane lights and oil lanterns in the cabin, and the children pull out a deck of cards. I sit outside under the covered porch; the howling wind and rolling waves leave me feeling serene. The rain hits suddenly; it does not start slowly but gets thrown down. Horizontal drops pelt the cottage windows and buffet me under the porch roof — so I sneak inside, and we all gather to watch the show from the big front window. Thunder shakes the cabin, and the kids scream with excitement. They count aloud the seconds between thunder and lightning. Boom and bolt happen simultaneously, and prongs of lightning seem to strike into our little bay.

My wife asks me to go out to see if the dogs are all right. She thinks she has heard the crash of a tree as it hit the privy. She wonders aloud whether the swim raft has broken its moorings and floated to the far end of the lake. She thinks I should go check on the boat. I watch the lightning touch down nearby, and wonder whether getting life insurance with her encouragement was such a good idea.

The storm rages for about an hour, and then the clouds move off to the south, the sound and light disappear over the distant hills. The lake calms perceptively, and the stars come out. Still, the children decide they will sleep in the loft rather than the tent tonight. I wander around to check on things. The island smells damp and cool. Besides some broken branches and boughs, all is well.

I love a good storm. I recall being caught outside in many. I remember canoe trips, scrambling to get tents set up when a squall hits, and mountain storms on horse pack trips, trying to get horses fed while the wind whips your long slicker and rain streams from your hat. Nothing beats a cottage storm, when you are warm and cozy, under the soft glow of the oil lamps with a fire burning in the wood stove, looking out at the sound and fury over the lake.

At home, a storm like this would have brought worries of power outages, surges, driving problems. Here at the cottage, it just brings a wild and astonishing beauty … the perfect storm.

Holding the Fort

Some stories are better started at the end.

My wife, sister, and brother-in-law, back from a shopping expedition, came walking into a cottage thick with smoke. The cabin was a disaster. There I stood, my pants soaked in an area that suggested I had wet myself, hot dogs smeared into my jeans and scattered about my feet, the charred remains of something inedible visible on the oven rack behind the open stove door, and my shirt ripped and tattered and scorched black. On my face was a smile that probably looked quite idiotic — but it was simply meant to calm the horrified expressions that greeted me and to convey the message that all was okay and you won't believe this.

Their worry was not for my predicament, however, which became evident when the ladies asked loudly in unison, “Are the kids all right?”

“Oh, yes.” I had forgotten about them.

“Where are they?”

“Oh — they're out there.” I made a sweeping gesture with my hand, indicating a wide radius where the children might be found. “They're on the island — somewhere …”

My wife gave me a practised glower. My sister shook her head disbelievingly. My brother-in-law smiled — he had one-upped me in the constant understated competition of looking good to the spouses.

Now, perhaps it's best if I go back to the beginning.