Cottage Daze (16 page)

I slowly manoeuvre around them, shake my head, and carry on, a little annoyed that this herd of tourists has invaded my quiet excursion. The road climbs a little higher and then snakes through a wide meadow. Suddenly, I see it. The late-afternoon sun throws its enriching light over the hillside. An explosion of colour: vivid reds and vibrant oranges mixed with golds, greens, burgundies, and yellows overpower the senses.

This kaleidoscopic display butts up against a rocky escarpment and sweeps down to the narrow bay of a Muskoka lake. Here the colours are mirrored in the shimmering royal blue of the water. It is like a painting. The view is awe-inspiring. I pull off to the side and grab my camera. The bus chugs past and I see smiling faces turned my way, much nicer than the slightly annoyed look I so recently gave them. I wave, a salute and a thank you for helping me to see.

Sometimes we can get a little complacent about the beauty of the world around us. We would rather find the spectacular when we go looking for it, in the far-away places we visit, but we neglect it right under our noses.

I lived in the West for quite some time, amongst the snow-capped mountain peaks of the Rockies. Sometimes I would get so used to my surroundings that I became blind to their spectacular appeal. I was working in the tourist trade, however, and was always reminded by visitors how lucky I was to be living in such a lovely setting. For a time I lived in Banff, and would walk to work in the early morning hours, stepping around wild elk that wandered through the townsite, not giving them a second look, treating them as I would late-night revellers finally making their way homeward. Sometimes the charm and wildness of our surroundings becomes so commonplace that we lose our ability to see. I imagine that this happens to people the world over. They might ask themselves, “Why are all these people here taking photos of ruins. Where is the beauty in that?”

Since I have moved back east to Muskoka, I have had scores of people ask me why I left such a spectacular part of the world to settle here. Have they not looked around themselves, at the wild hardwood forests, the inviting lakes, and the rugged beauty of the Canadian Shield?

I am on my way to the cottage. It is time to close the place for winter. I set out on my journey in kind of a sullen mood, but the big views of rock, blue-green lakes, and the resplendent colours of the forest have done their work. I know when I arrive at the lake and trek up the path to the cabin, I will enjoy the thick, vibrant carpet that cushions my steps. I will look skyward at the geese flying south. There will be the wonderful smells and textures of the fall-cured grasses and the slightly decaying odour of fallen leaves. In the evening there will be the smoky smell of the woodstove and the soft glow of the lamplight. Perhaps the cold, crisp night sky will welcome me with a magnificent display of stars, or even the northern lights. This is a beautiful place in the world, as the busload of tourists I passed well knew.

I was not looking forward to this trip to the cottage, but now autumn has cast its spell, and I am thankful.

To Fetch a Pail of Water

It was snowing when we opened the cottage on the long weekend in May. Now, while it was not exactly snowing when we came to close the place, it was far from warm summer weather. Things were so busy at home that I grabbed my dad and a couple of dogs to head up to the lake mid-week, driving through the beautiful colours of a spectacular autumn day. We looked forward to this visit. It would be a great bonding time for father and son, and we wondered when, if ever, we had been to the cottage together like this, just the two of us.

It was cold. We awoke the first morning to see our breath. A heavy mist rose from the lake, and the dock was covered by a thick, white frost. We had already dissembled the pump, so I wandered down to get a bucket of water for the breakfast dishes. My dad's footprints were clearly etched on the frozen pier boards where he had grabbed a pot of water for morning coffee. It made a beautiful photo, the swirling fog, the white frost on the dock and boat, footprints of Dad and dogs, and the distant beams of light from a sun trying to poke through to lend a little warmth to the scene.

Our cottage is a little remote, so we tend to close up the cabin like a fortress. Our main intention is to protect the place against intruders — from vandals, but more so from furry trespassers. We bolt heavy wire mesh on all of the windows. Seldom have we had much trouble with the cabin from people. The mice and squirrels have at times left a mess in the interior, as they have enjoyed the run of the place through the cold months. Over time we have learned how to close the place to minimize the damage.

We secured the cabin, packed up any foodstuff that remained from our summer visits, put anything that might freeze over winter away in our bunker below frost line, and stowed all the bedding and towels that the mice might find inviting into secure closets. We worked our way through our closing checklist, and by evening had pretty much everything done.

We had a nice steak dinner, and Dad and I talked about all the great years we had enjoyed in this place. We reminisced about the adventures and the misadventures, the lessons learned, the fun times and the growing up that we had done here. After dinner, I settled down at the table to work on this narrative; it was my last column of the season, and I was unsure what to write.

“Can't help you there,” said my dad, and then disappeared outside to grab a kettle full of water for cleanup.

I worked away, writing down little notes and trying to find some inspiration. I was unaware that while I was agonizing over a storyline for some time, my dad was outside doing his best to supply it.

The two huskies had wandered down with him and watched from the end of the dock as he leaned over to scoop some water. It was dark, and the water was smooth and black; it was hard to tell where night air ended and cold lake water began. The dogs watched him tumble into the water and splash around trying to find his footing and struggle back to dry land. In the movies they would have raced up to fetch me, offered up a bark of danger, a yelp that said, “Put your pen down, stupid, the old guy is in trouble!”

When the door of the cabin swung open and he stood there dripping on the stoop, this was the point that seemed to disconcert him the most. (Well, besides the fact that he realized immediately that his exploits would be in the paper in a week.) “They just stared down at me,” he complained, “I'm sure wondering what I was up to. They stood there side by side with their heads cocked to the side and an inquisitive expression on their faces. When I got out, they ran away scared, like I was the creature from the black lagoon.”

That made me laugh — he looked a little like that. His sweatshirt was soaked, stretched long and dripping. His hair was in a soggy state of disarray. His shoes squelched as he walked, and he left a long trail of water behind, like swamp ooze. He shivered uncontrollably, but tried to tell me that the water was actually quite beautiful.

“I'm not going for a swim, Dad.”

“No, it felt surprisingly nice, and I feel clean.”

I think it is great when you feel so good when you should really feel ridiculous — but I didn't tell him, of course. After all, he is my dad. Besides, it kind of scared me. What if he had hit his head and drowned? What would I tell my mom? “Sorry, but I had to leave Dad in the lake, he was too water-logged for me to lift.” Would I ever get a lecture. “See,” she would probably tell me, “I knew your lack of enthusiasm for doing the dishes would someday lead to trouble.”

It will be another cottage tale. It will be a story made better over time. Someday I will be closing the place with my son. How special is that? I'll grab a bucket and head out in the evening for some water. I will pause on the front porch, remembering adventures from days past — then I will slip on a life jacket and head for the dock.

The Closing

I put the metal screens on the cabin windows. They bolt on and make our log cottage secure over the winter. The pump is dismantled and drained. The propane tanks are stored and the lines sealed against insects. My wife rummages through the cupboards, packing unused food away in boxes to take back home. She fortifies the kitchen drawers and cabinets against little, furry winter intruders.

The canoes go to the boathouse, with the life jackets, paddles, water skis, tow ropes, and tubes. We turn the soil in our little garden patch. The Muskoka chairs are moved from the dock to the shed. I lower the Canadian flag on the dockside pole, fold it neatly, and store it away. Everything has its place. The closing ritual is a time-honoured affair, perfected over the years. Well, perfected, but never perfect. There are always important things forgotten and lessons learned — often little things discovered when it is time to open the cottage in the spring.

I clean the duck nesting box and change the straw bedding. We have had a female merganser roosting in the box the past two springs, and we, of course, are happy that we can help out in a small way. Even happier in May, when I thought that the wooden house was empty and joked that I should hang a vacancy sign, but when I tried to peek in the little entry hole I was greeted with a terrifying hiss. I fell backwards from my perch, much to my family's delight. We knew then that we would enjoy watching a young merganser brood trail around behind their mother in our bay and find pleasure in seeing the youngsters mature and grow through the summer months.

The cabin stands lonely.

While the opening of the cottage is always anticipated with excitement and done with smiles, the closing is a necessary but melancholy end to the cottage season, done with a heavy heart. If we can find the time, we may sneak up for a weekend or two in late October or November. We may even snowshoe or sled over to the island for a winter visit, but those fun family cottage days of summer are officially over for another year.

This year as we close the cottage, the weather is appropriate. The wind blows the fallen leaves around and whips the lake into a frenzy. A steady drizzle falls, and everything is damp. The maple and birch trees are empty of their colourful foliage and stand stark and naked. The sky is grey and sullen. It suits our mood.

With everything loaded in the boat, my wife and I take one last stroll around the island trail. We stop to admire the tree fort that the children have built this summer, high up in some pines — too high for my comfort level. We pause at the rock cairn that marks our dog Macky's resting place. We wander out the plank walkway to swim rock and look out over the water that was so blue and inviting during the summer months. Now, though beautiful still in its own way, it is cold, choppy, and leaden grey. We pass by the point where we enjoyed many bonfires on those still summer evenings. Here, we sang some songs, were entertained by my dad's harmonica, told some tall tales, and scared ourselves with ghost stories. My wife and I stack the wooden benches neatly under the sweeping boughs of an old pine tree.

Finally, knowing that it is time and we can delay no longer, I have one last look in the cabin and lock and bolt the door. We head down to the dock. I imagine squirrels watching us from the tree branches, our friendly mink peering from his hollowed log on the shore, and the mice eyeing us from the woodpile.

All of them saying, “Good, those strange creatures are finally leaving. We can have our cottage back!”

In Winter Snow

Cottage Country Christmas

I sometimes wonder how certain traditions come to be. I am, in fact, wondering now as I hang precariously off the roof of my Muskoka home.

My upper torso is suspended in space beyond the roof eaves as I work at untangling a web of wire and lights. The toes of my winter boots are dug into the icy, shingled slope. My fingers, numb from the cold, fumble with the bulbs. Far below me I see the white ground, and I am fully aware that our mild weather lately has left very little snow to break my inevitable fall.

Below, I also see my wife staring upward, and I am touched that she is there to catch me when I fall. I realize she is pointing and shouting up instructions as if my exercise is a simple matter akin to rearranging the living room furniture. “You have two yellows together,” she seems to be shouting, but her words blow off in the biting wind. My three daughters stand at my wife's side, echoing her commands and offering their own helpful suggestions.

The ladies are not the only helpers I have had on this day. As I stretched out the strings of lights on the front porch, my young husky pup decided it was he who was to be decorated. Wrapping himself in a cloak of many colours, he scurried about the yard, slightly out of my reach, proud of our newly invented game.

Now, I have made it sound like I do not enjoy this pre-holiday ritual. The truth is, none of the trials and tribulations of the exercise can take away from the end result — when the lights are up and you stand at the ready with audience gathered. You stick the plug into the socket. Your place lights up and the kids ooh and ahh, and bring to your attention the many lights that blink, flash, pop, and fade to black. It is back up to the roof.

Though one could argue that the intrinsic beauty of cottage country can be masked when the sun goes down, as it does quite early through December, the lights of Christmas tend to rectify this. Driving home in the evenings, along the back roads and lakeside drives, one marvels at the colourful strings of lights that trace out the rooflines of homes and cottages, frame windows and decks, wrap hedgerows and trees, and illuminate outdoor skating rinks. As a starry night in this region seems all the more brilliant because of the lack of big city lights, so, too, do the Christmas lights seem all the more acute. The lighting adds beauty and brilliance to cottage country. Twinkling stars and carefully laid out nativity scenes remind of us of Christmas's greatest story.

Traditions — they are a big part of the magic of the season, and bring back a powerful nostalgia for the family Christmas celebrations of our youth. I know we sometimes get cynical about the commercialism. At times we get overwhelmed by the shopping. We panic because the whole family is coming, and we want things to be perfect.

An escape to cottage country for Christmas is a great way to reconnect with holiday traditions and memories. Life at the cottage encourages fun in the snowy out-of-doors: sleigh rides and snowmobiles, skiing and tobogganing, and then sitting around a bonfire with a mug of hot chocolate. We clear skating rinks on the ponds and bays and enjoy an energetic shinny match. A snowman is built and stands guard. The distant sound of church bells and carolling is heard.

Inside, the cottage is warm and cozy, a fire burns in the hearth, and stockings are hung from the mantel. There is the scent of pine from a Christmas tree and fresh garland. A drink and some goodies are set out for Santa, and I assure the younger children that he will make it down the chimney just fine, in spite of the flames. There is the anticipation of Christmas morning, followed by the smell of the turkey, and a feast. There are mince pies, homemade fruitcake, and Christmas pudding. Best of all, there are family and friends.

Christmas in cottage country — it is Christmas-card perfect.

Gone Skiing

There were six pairs of cross-country skis under the Christmas tree this year. Six sets of backcountry skis, poles, and boots. Santa Claus must have felt I needed to get out and get a little more exercise. Well, not just me, my darling wife, too, and our four kids. Okay — he felt that I should, and he was kind enough to give me company.

I have not tried cross-country skiing for a good many years, not since my teenage years when the skis had just recently advanced past being wooden boards with leather straps. Way back then you had those vinyl/plastic low-cut boots that helped to deep freeze your toes into a painful state of numbness. You felt that if you whacked your foot with a ski pole, both boot and foot would crack in half. And that was on the warm winter days.

The equipment certainly has advanced. This new variety of boot is high-cut, leather, well-cushioned, and comfortably insulated. They look good too, racy and sleek. The long skis are a little wider than I remember, for ploughing down snowy trails. They are scaled on the bottom, so you no longer have to rub wax on them for hours before departure, pretending that you know what you are doing. Even the bindings seem much more sensible than the old “squeeze-the-toe” type that always seemed to pop loose as you were gaining speed down some steep pitch.

The gear advancements were well thought out. The equipment was, in my kids' words, “Sick!” That is good, by the way. All I needed now was a pair of spandex tights to complete the ensemble. Not. As my oldest girl would say, “Dad, just because I can pull the look off so well doesn't mean that you should even go there!”

I clip my boots into the ski bindings, grab the poles, and prepare to stride off down the peaceful trail. Instead, I lose my balance and fall clumsily into the soft, deep snow. I find out what the poles are actually for, as I slowly pry myself back to my feet and then fall the other way. My family waits patiently, if not quietly — I'm greeted by a chorus of heckling. I contemplate pulling out an excuse: a bad back, a sore knee, a concussion — I bonked my head and can't remember how my legs work. Instead I persevere, we are off, and I am soon mastering the technique.

The sense of independence and self-sufficiency gained from skiing to the cottage in winter is deeply satisfying.

My poles flick at the snow, working in unison with the skis. I push hard down the packed track; the dense groves of silver birch, maple, and aspen that hedge the trail are nothing more than a blur in my periphery. I glide effortlessly along, climb up short hills, and then swoosh down long looping slopes that carve through thick stands of pine.

I begin wondering to myself whether there is enough time to prepare myself for the 2010 Vancouver Olympics. “Coming around the last corner, for Canada, well in the lead, is skier number thirteen in his flashy tight Lycra ski suit. Boy, does he look good. He is in great shape for a guy in his forties — it's hard to believe he just learned to ski last year, folks. What an effort — what an athlete …”

“Track!” I am brought back to the moment as my seven-year-old shouts, “Track!” and shuffles awkwardly past.

Okay, the Olympics are out. I am having fun, though, exploring cottage country like this, on skis with my family. The weather is pleasant. It is quiet, the heavy snow deadens any sound. Silence has even fallen over my loquacious wife and garrulous daughters as they concentrate on the effort. There is no sound save for my heavy breathing, the sound of wind, the twitter of the occasional bird.

The outing brought back fond memories from my youth, when I would ski along some tracked trail trying hard to stay in front of a prim and dainty girlfriend. Just as it became apparent that the race was lost and my manliness would be compromised, I would hail the girl over to the side of the trail for a slurp of a fine Chianti from a wineskin and some crusty, cold bread and cheese. Before departing for home I would push her over into the deep snow with the pretence of flirting, and then stride off down the winding path hoping to use the advantage of the head start to somehow stay in the lead. You see, everything for a man is a competition.

In those early days, my family made many treks to our island cottage in winter across the frozen, snow-covered lake, usually pulling our weekend's provisions behind us on toboggans. There were few things more satisfying than sitting back on the cottage porch with a hot toddy in hand, looking out over the pristine winter scene, knowing that you had earned this view, worked for the right to be here. The sense of independence and self-sufficiency gained from skiing to the cottage in winter was deeply satisfying. A few more outings like today and, the heck with the Olympics, my family and I will be ready for a cottage winter's journey.

In Stitches

I took a puck off the old nose the other day. I help coach a local team of young hockey players, and was probably throwing out some particularly invaluable piece of advice when a fellow coach's blistering snap shot rang off of the crossbar and then rang off of my tender schnozz. There I was, gushing red and scurrying off the ice at a speed that would have made Don Cherry proud.

It could have been worse. I could have taken it in the teeth or eye. It happened so quickly, but I did manage to turn enough that it hit me on the side of the nose rather than on the bone. So it wasn't broken, but split open badly enough that a good number of stitches were going to be required. With help, I bandaged the cut with hockey tape and gauze to slow the bleeding, then hopped in my truck for the hour and a half drive to the hospital.

For once, the accident didn't happen at the cottage, but it did happen at an arena in cottage country. For all of us who spend time at the cottage winter or summer, or who live in Muskoka year-round, there is always that little worry about medical facilities — will the doctor be in, or out on the golf course, canoeing down the river, fishing on the lake, out backcountry skiing on one of the beautiful trails, or off playing a game of shinny themselves? How long will we have to sit and wait, while our lifeblood slowly drains from our bodies?

I got in to see a doctor in a fairly timely manner. He seemed quite young to me, about half my age, but pleasant and personable. He took a look at my nose, let out a low whistle, and then immediately professed that he had to get a nose specialist, as this was beyond the scope of his expertise. He could stitch a finger or leg, maybe even a split noggin, but not a facial wound such as mine. Having made such a pronouncement, he left the little hospital room in search of a qualified nose-netician.

An hour later he was back. “Well,” he said, “I guess I'll just have to do it.” The closest nose, ear, and throat specialist he could find was in Barrie, but the stitches had to be done now, there was no time for the drive. “I'll give it a try,” he said, to my mounting horror. “The helpful fellow in Barrie kind of told me how to do it.”

And, just when I thought things could not get worse, in walked my darling wife, who saw me in my sorry state and started to laugh. The doctor got on his gloves and readied the needle and thread. My wife looked at my nose briefly and said, “Gross! I gotta go. I can't watch this.” Before she walked out she turned to the doctor and threatened him, “Make sure you do a good job!” With that, out she stomped, and I saw the poor medical man start to shake. Sweat beads formed on his forehead.

So, with the doc trembling and me full of trepidation, he began his work, poking and threading together a split nostril on a nose barely frozen. I balled my fists and tried not to cry like a baby. He finished the first suture and then exclaimed, “Eeeeee, your wife's not going to like that, let me try that one again.”

“Never mind my wife,” I felt like shouting, “just get it done.” But out it came, and then on he worked, jabbing, pulling, poking, and tying. Five stitches later he sat back and surveyed his work, satisfied with the outcome.

The doctor actually did a wonderful job. The nose is on straight and the cut is barely noticeable. And now the young professional has the experience and confidence to tackle the next facial laceration that walks in, someone who has fallen forward onto cross-country skis, tripped over a sleeping dog on the dock, or stumbled onto a jagged piece of rock while snowshoeing or hiking through our rugged cottage landscape.

For me it is just another little scar, a distinguishing mark, giving me a rugged look — or so I tell my wife. And the fine work the surgeon did is just another example of the quality of care we can expect to receive for any of those cuts and broken bones received during our time at the cottage, away from a major centre.

The End of Claus?

There is a certain magic in Christmas, mostly born of tradition. Though I'm sure every family approaches the holiday a little differently, for most, it is about family and home, friends and entertaining and giving. There are church bells and carolling, strings of lights around the home and stockings hung on the mantel, the scent of pine from a Christmas tree and fresh garland. There is the anticipation of Christmas morning, followed by the smell of the turkey, and a feast. There are mince pies, homemade fruitcake, and Christmas pudding. Every family has its own customs, but those little traditions become the memories and the touchstones that make Christmas so wonderful.