by J. J. Murray
“About a hundred eighty miles, so ... four hours.”
“Four hours?” I ask.
“The roads will change,” Joe says.
And the roads do change. After driving north through endless farmland, we start hitting hills and curves and curvy hills, uphill, downhill, getting passed, often even on double yellow lines. The scenery is beautiful, though, and while the kids look for wildlife like bears, moose, and deer, I see blueberry stands, and combination gas station/post offices next to authorized Sears dealers, who also sell satellite dishes and live bait. Canada so far is ... strange.
For long stretches through the mountains, we pass little lakes and cross a river or two and I don’t see a single house.
“It’s pretty remote out here,” I say.
“Yeah.” He raises his eyebrows. “Good place for a honeymoon,” he whispers.
He has to be kidding. I don’t want the kids to hear any of this, so I lean as far to the left as I can.
“No one to bother us,” he whispers, “except for the bugs and maybe a bear.”
Now I know he’s kidding.
“And,” he whispers even more softly, “without the kids.”
Maybe he isn’t kidding ... “Joe, where are we going for our honeymoon really?”
“If you like it up here, and I hope you will, we can come up in September when the leaves are changing.”
“With your parents here?” That’s no kind of honeymoon.
“No, they’re good Canadians from Ontario. They go down to Florida for most of the winter.”
“Oh. But won’t it be cold?”
“Sure will. I may have to keep a fire going in the fireplace or the woodstove continuously.”
Hmm. Fireplace, cold, just the two of us, no kids, free lodging. Moose, bear, and bugs. “We’ll see.”
After a series of roads I will never remember, we end up on Highway 62 past some of the tallest, straightest pine trees I have ever seen. We pass a ski resort, the hillsides all grown up with greenery, and then we approach a town.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Joe announces, “we’re about to enter the thriving metropolis of Barry’s Bay, population twelve hundred for the last forty years. Look quick, now. Don’t blink.”
Barry’s Bay reminds me of an old-fashioned American town, all the stores facing each other with cars parked in front of them, the main drag down the middle, only ...
“Joe, they’re parking on the sidewalk,” I say.
“Yep.”
I wait for the explanation, but he doesn’t give me one. I guess parking on sidewalks is just what Canadians do. He stops at a little convenience store—at least it looks like one to me.
“Why are we stopping?” I ask.
“To get fishing licenses.”
We pile out, stretching, yawning, and ... Hey, this air tastes good. It’s a little chilly, maybe seventy, but this air is nice.
We follow Joe into the store, all six of us, the kids fanning out to browse the snacks.
The lady at the counter doesn’t even blink. “Hey, Joe,” she says.
Luckily she’s about sixty, or I’d have a problem with her knowing my man’s name.
“Hey, Bonnie.” Joe counts behind him. “We need five licenses.”
“Seven-day conservation?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says.
I tilt my head into his face. This means I need an explanation. I don’t get one right away, so I ask, “What’s seven-day conservation?”
“Oh,” he says. “A limit of two fish each day. With so many of us fishing, we’ll catch plenty.”
“Mama,” Toni says, “did Joe get a license for me?”
“You won’t need one, Toni,” Joe says. “You’re young enough that you can fish without a license.”
Toni pouts. “I’m not fishing, then, Mama.”
“Why not?” Rose asks.
“I want a license, too,” Toni says.
“But you won’t need one, Toni,” Rose says. “And it’s so fun. I caught a five-and-a-half pounder two years ago. It’s the biggest fish on the wall at Grandpa’s.”
I step closer to Joe. “You stuff them?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just a tracing of the fish on some newspaper.”
“It’s one of the biggest smallmouth ever caught at the lake,” Rose says. Man, that child’s eyes twinkle when she talks about fishing. “I caught it on a leech behind Turkey Island.”
A ... leech. Great.
Once we have the licenses, we buy three dozen leeches and two dozen worms. They travel in the back of the van with the boys. I just wish they wouldn’t give me the play-byplay with the leeches: “They look like snakes ... ” “They only suck a little blood if they get on you ...”
Joe will have to put them on the hook for me.
On Highway 60, we’re stopped by construction, and I notice many of the workers are women, all dressed in jeans, boots, and flannel shirts. Where are the men?
Probably out fishing.
Joe slows to allow a logging truck to fly by, then pulls over entirely next to a pond. “That lake over there is where my great-grandfather got the foundation for Murphy’s Unlimited.”
“For what?” Toni asks.
Joe takes a breath. “Um, for the house, Toni.”
“You named the house?” Toni asks.
Joe looks at me. “Um, yeah. It’s kind of a tradition up here. Anyway, this is the place—”
“Can I tell it?” Jimmy interrupts.
“Sure, Jimmy.”
Then Jimmy tells an amazing story. “Great-Grandpa George rowed all the way down the Aylen Lake. Two and a half miles. Then he put the rowboat on the bed of his truck and drove up the lake road, and it was really crummy back then. And then he drove here, put the boat in the water, rowed over to those rocks, loaded the rocks into the boat, rowed back, unloaded the rocks into his truck, put the rowboat on the back, drove back to the lake, reloaded the rocks into the rowboat, and rowed two and a half miles to the clearing, unloaded the rocks ...”
I’m getting tired just hearing about it! Four times, he did this. Four times. All to build a foundation. Jimmy tells the story well, and I can feel the pride in this van.
At the top of yet another hill is a sign for Aylen Lake Road. It isn’t really a road. It’s more like a dirty washboard full of curves and speed limit signs we’ll never threaten. Joe slows to cross a bridge over a little dam.
“There’s some good fishing there, Toni,” Jimmy says. “I caught my very first fish there.”
Up a hill, bouncing over more washboard, over the top ...
Wow.
God does vacation here.
Clear blue sky with fluffy white clouds hanging over clear blue water, islands of pine, forests, mountains in the distance ... It’s the Garden of Eden North. I catch Toni’s eyes. She’s drinking it all in, too.
“Anyone need to use the restroom?” Joe asks.
Six voices say, “Yeah.”
Joe needs to add more rest stops on the way back.
Then he pulls the van next to an outhouse—with both a men’s side and a women’s side!
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask.
Joe’s kids get out of the van without any hesitation.
“Mommy, what’s that?” Toni asks.
“The restroom,” Junior says, and he gets out.
“Rose, can you take Toni to the restroom?”
Rose holds out her hand, Toni takes it, and they disappear around the other side of the outhouse.
As soon as they’re gone, I ask, “Is it safe?”
“Yes.”
He opens his door, and he goes, leaving me alone in the van with a buzzing mosquito. I swat at it, but it’s too quick for me. And it is loud. And big! I get out just to get away from it, standing on some sandy, rocky ground.
Junior approaches. “They do have indoor plumbing, don’t they?”
“I’m sure they do,” I say, but I really don’t know, and I’m afraid to ask
Joe because I’m afraid of his answer.
After everyone but me has found relief, Joe goes to call his father at a pay phone while we wander about at the Landing, a series of cabins and docks and a gas pump. A big, fluffy, hairy dog—of a breed (or breeds) I’m not familiar with—comes out and plays fetch with the boys, and they’re not using a stick. It’s a log.
“Can we get some ice cream?” Toni asks, pulling on my arm.
“Where?”
She leads me into a little store where I can buy ice cream, fishing tackle, boat parts, bilge pumps, potato chips, and licorice. What a strange combination, like everything in Canada. I guess if someone up here needs it, they have it.
“Can I have some ice cream?” Toni asks again, practically drooling.
“I’m sure we’ll eat lunch”—or dinner, it’s so late in the day—“when we get to the house.”
She pouts, but if I buy ice cream for her, I have to buy ice cream for four other kids, and anyway, I don’t have any Canadian money.
Joe backs up the van to the largest set of docks, and he and the boys unload the duffel bags near an empty space at the end of the dock.
“There’s Grandpa,” Rose says, pointing out into the water at a huge green boat plowing through the water.
And suddenly I’m nervous.
“Like the color of Grandpa’s boat?” Rose asks.
“Not particularly,” I say.
“Jimmy says it’s puke green,” Rose says.
And that’s exactly what it looks like.
As the boat nears, I get a clearer picture of what Joe might look like in twenty-five years. Joe’s dad wears a fishing hat, jeans, and a black and blue flannel shirt.
Joey goes to the empty space at the end of the dock and catches the boat, tying it to little metal rings.
Joe’s dad gets out and nods at Joe. He looks down at our pile. “Hmm,” he says, just like my mama!
“Yeah,” Joe says.
And that is their entire conversation, because Joe’s kids crowd around their grandpa, giving hugs, shouting, “Grandpa!” and “How’s the fishing been?”
Joe’s dad looks from my kids to Joe. “All these belong to you?”
“Yes, sir,” Joe says, and it makes me feel wonderful. “Dad, this is Shawna. And that’s Junior and Toni.”
“Isn’t there another one?” Joe’s dad asks.
“Um, she had to work,” Joe says.
“Oh,” Joe’s dad says. “And who are these three pawing at me?”
“Ha, ha,” Rose says.
“No, really.” He looks carefully at Jimmy. “Who are you?”
Jimmy giggles. “Grandpa, you know who I am.”
“You look like Jimmy, but the last time I saw you, you were only a foot high.” He smiles at me. “Welcome.”
“Hi,” I say.
Joe’s dad steps away from the kids, standing in front of me, looking every bit like Joe’s older brother. “Not many of your kind around here.”
Say what?
He smiles. “By ‘your kind,’ Shawna, I mean pretty.” He hugs me. “Welcome to Aylen.”
“Um, what should I call you?” And this is important to me. I don’t want to call him the wrong thing.
“Yeah. Mr. Murphy might get confusing. What do we have, six or seven Mr. Murphys up here this summer?”
No way.
“You can’t call me Joe either. There are three of those.”
I turn to Joe. “You’re a junior?”
“No. Seven generations in a row of Joes with different middle names.”
Seven Joes in a row?
Joe’s dad nods. “You can call me Kaz, short for Kazuby. It’s a family name. Sort of a family joke, really.”
I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Kaz.”
Kaz looks over my head to Joe. “Now, what will we call your mother, Joe?”
“Mom?” I suggest.
“No. We have scads of those up here, too.” He winks at me, and I feel ... accepted. “You can call her Elle. Short for Ellen.”
Loading the boat takes a degree in engineering and physics, but somehow the three Joes, Junior, and Jimmy (so many Js!) get all the duffel bags and us inside. We put a life vest on Toni, though she fusses with me the entire time.
“No one else is wearing one,” she complains, but my eyes stop that complaint completely.
“We’re going to ride low,” Kaz says before he starts up the motor.
“We’re used to it,” Junior says, standing beside him.
“We might even swamp a skier or two,” Kaz says with a smile. “That might be fun.”
Joe unties us, Kaz backs out and guns it, and we all have to move to the front so the boat will “plane”—whatever that means. We plow through the water around Twin Islands—“Big bass there,” Rose tells me—into open water. We see kids on tubes, skis, wakeboards, and boogie boards behind huge ski boats, a few sailboats, and a pontoon boat.
Toni is dipping her hand into the spray the boat is throwing up. “The water is cold, Mama.”
God must like taking cold baths.
I look at my children’s faces, and they have such wide eyes. Joe’s kids, though, have soft eyes, eyes that seem to say “it’s good to be back here.”
I move as close to Joe as I dare. “Do all your kids ski?”
“Yeah. But now they’re into wakeboards and dueling tubes. Crash, boom, giggle. You want to try to ski? I’m a good teacher.”
In a bathing suit that might fall off? “Maybe next summer, after we fly up here.” My riding-in-a-van muscles are sore!
Cabins and cottages, none of them quite a full house, roll by in all shapes, sizes, and colors. We see A-frames, ranches, A-frame ranches, a few sprawling cabin “estates,” and no two are alike. I notice that all have walls of windows facing the lake. Fancy docks, simple docks, old boats, new boats, canoes, sailboats—there’s just so much to see!
We slow to a single dock below a set of redwood stairs leading to a redwood house with a deck and a screened porch, an old brown boat tied up on one side, a canoe lying on the beach.
“Jimmy,” Kaz says, “you jump out and tie us up as best as you can while the rest of us stay put.” He turns to Joe. “I need to level and brace the dock again. Your mother has taken two unintentional swims.”
“She fell in?” I ask.
“Dropped is a better term,” Kaz says.
Oh, that’s good. Not.
“If the dock isn’t level and braced just right,” Joe says, “it, um, opens up.”
“We’ll get her fixed,” Kaz says.
Joe’s mama or the dock? I hope she’s okay.
“But just to be safe, let’s do this nice and slow,” Kaz says. “Go easy on the tonnage back there.”
While Joey and Jimmy hand out our “tonnage” to Joe and Kaz, Elle comes to the top of the stairs. “I’m not coming down there until you boys fix that dock.” She waves at me. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I say.
Elle is short, thin, pale, and wears a long-sleeved red and black flannel shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. Her outfit must be the national dress for Canadians.
My kids step gingerly onto the dock and run for the stairs. I get out of the boat with Joe’s help, and the dock sways a little, bouncing me up as I take each step.
“How deep is it, just in case?” I ask him.
“Three or four feet, depending on the ice, rainfall, hydro ...”
They don’t even know how deep it is!
I hold the rail on my way up the stairs as the boys wrestle with our “tonnage,” stopping in front of Elle.
“Joe lied about you,” Elle says.
“He did?” Ouch! What was that? Something bit my leg.
“He said you were pretty,” Elle says. “He should have said gorgeous.” She hugs me.
“Thank you.”
“Where’s your oldest?” Elle asks.
“Working,” I say. Ouch! Something is still biting my leg!
“Let’s get away f
rom these horseflies.” She smiles. “I believe that God didn’t create anything without a purpose, but horseflies and mosquitoes come close.” She looks at my shorts. “You won’t be wearing them much longer.”
I swat something buzzing from my leg, and it’s so big I think I bruised a finger. Between the stairs and the door to the screened porch is a distance of maybe fifty feet, but I get bitten four times by blackflies, mosquitoes, or horseflies by the time I get inside. I will wear long pants or sweats at all times up here.
While the kids fan out in the house to parts unknown, Elle offers me a cup of hot Red Rose tea. We sit at a picnic table covered with a tablecloth a few feet from a large kitchen.
She hands me my cup and sits. “We eat all our meals out here. Isn’t it grand?”
It is. The porch is screened on three sides. Behind me is a shed and the woods. To my right is a view of the path and some towels drying on a cord tied between two massive pine trees. And right in front of me is a breathtaking view of the lake.
I scratch at lumps forming on my calves and ankles. “I need to change.”
“Oh, the bugs are intolerable this year,” Elle says.
“They seem to like me.” A lot. I am, after all, so sweet.
“It’s this heat wave,” she says.
Heat wave? It can’t be more than seventy-two out here!
“Joe brought some Cutter, didn’t he?” Elle asks.
“Yes.”
“Cutter helps, but I think the bugs use Cutter for an appetizer sometimes.” She smiles. “As long as you keep covered, they won’t bother you much.”
I hear all sorts of noise coming from the rest of the house. “Shouldn’t I be helping them get settled?”
“The men will settle everyone in. I’ve put all the girls upstairs where it’s warmer at night. Hope you don’t mind.”
Of course I don’t mind! “Will we all fit?” It doesn’t seem to be that big of a house.
Elle looks up at the ceiling. “We can sleep eight comfortably up there.”
“Really?”
“Murphy’s can sleep sixteen comfortably, all told,” she says.
Wow. But where? And how?
“You all like fish, don’t you?” she asks.
“Sure.”
She takes a sip. “Kaz has blessed me with a freezer full of bass. There’s no room for ice cubes. We have to have a fish fry tonight.”
The boys fly by in their bathing suits, shouting, “We’re going to the beach!”