by James Ross
At times we talked seriously, at times we tried to be witty and funny, and we shared some good laughs. We considered putting a couple of the branches and treetops of the fallen timber over the peak of the roof, spreading some glass fragments around in the driveway, and fastening some plywood over the big glass windows of the Muskoka room. The dangerous trees were at the back of the cabin, and the laneway came in from the front, so we thought this lark might bring on a funny reaction upon the owners’ return. Then again, we thought we might never be forgiven, and we knew the lady of the house would get even, so we scrapped the idea.
The sky darkened, and we babbled on about the stars and how magnificent they appeared at the cottage. We mentioned how the nights were getting cooler now, and how nice it would be to build a sauna here by the lake. We discussed sauna designs and deliberated on how to best distribute the heat, described how so-and-so had ingeniously constructed theirs.
We schemed about going on a gentlemen’s ski trip out west together next winter, taking our sons with us. We debated on how best to broach the subject with our wives.
We yarned on about the crazy jobs we had when we were young, the adventures and the silliness. One had been a hockey player, one a cowboy, and the third a firefighter. We realized we hadn’t known a lot about one another. Now we were settled down with more mature jobs, families, and commitments. We were just three friends, three cottagers, sitting on a dock in the evening with our chores done for the day.
I think we may have used up a whole week’s quota of words before we decided to call it a night and wander home. I’m sure it will even out, though, when we see each other over the next few days and offer a brief grunt as a greeting.
Autumn’s Spell
I drive along one of the pretty, meandering back roads of cottage country through the warm enchantment of a sunny afternoon, passing through rock cuts of pink granite, dipping down through valley bottoms, and moving alongside leaden lakes now quiet after the summer rush. The road flings itself around the shoulders of hills, dips, and rises and carries on through a quiet forest. I drive in solitude, thinking that here, in autumn, I have this roadway all to myself.
The road crosses a bridge, climbs a small hill, and then straightens along the side of an open valley. I am surprised to see a tour bus pulled over where the shoulder widens, a group of people standing gaping off across the vale. They have their cameras out and arrange themselves in small groups taking photos, with the far hillside as a backdrop. At first I wonder what they see, and slow to look for a moose or bear. I see nothing but a valley and distant knoll.
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 ag
onizing 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 nati
vity 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.