Cottage Daze

by James Ross

  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 ti
me 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.

  In the midst of all the holiday merriment last year, my youngest child, Jenna, then six years old, caught me completely off guard when she asked, “Dad, is there really a Santa Claus? So-and-so at school said he isn’t real.” I looked at her: her big green eyes told me that she wanted to know the truth, but she also was very hopeful that the truth was what she wanted.

  This was not in line with those other queries: “Will Santa find us if we spend Christmas at the cottage?” Or “How will Santa make it down the chimney when you have the fire roaring?” No, this was a point-blank question about the truth. “Does Santa Claus really exist, or is it you and Mom that put all those presents under the tree and fill the stockings?” In other words, “Have you been lying to me all my life?”

  It’s that question that many parents fear, and coming from her, the youngest, it means the end of the line, the end of an era, the death of the jolly old man himself. Sure, you can tell her that the spirit of Santa Claus lives on, that he will always be a part of Christmas. No longer will there be that wide-eyed wonder, that child’s absolute faith that Santa would arrive in the night, eat up the treats left for him, and crowd the bottom of the Christmas tree with presents for all the good boys and girls of the house.

  Our oldest is fifteen now, so we have spent that many years perpetuating the myth. We would take it further. In the dark of night on Christmas Eve, I would sneak up on the roof and clop around like a team of reindeer. My wife’s father would show up in a Santa Claus suit, ringing a bell and singing out, “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!”

  We would let him in and he would chat with the girls, sounding a bit more like an old Chief of the Shuswap Nation addressing the Tribal Council than a jolly old elf from the North Pole. Our first child would screech mightily, and why not? Here was this funny looking, white-haired, bearded man dressed in a stylish red suit and sporting dark sunglasses to mask his true identity, showing up at the back door coaxing the youngster to come and sit on his lap with the promise of a present. We should have been proud of her trepidation, rather than insisting that she play along.

  Fifteen years we have been able to enjoy the children and the Santa Claus story. Now here, with one simple question, it all would end. “Santa is half real, and half made up. He is real in here,” I say, tapping her noggin. “He is part of your imagination. And because he is real in there, he is a very important part of all that is Christmas. Not the most important part, but an important part for both children and old guys like me.” I expected anger (she is a bit strong-minded), or for her to be upset, but she simply smiled, nodded, and sauntered off.

  Thankfully, we usually have lots of family around for Christmas. Jenna has her two young cousins visiting — later that same evening I hear her explaining to them that they must get to bed so Santa Claus will come. She tells them that she thought she saw Rudolph’s red nose blinking in the night sky, leading the way into cottage country through a December snowfall. She helps them set out a little tray of snacks and a glass of milk.

  Perhaps it never ends. When my oldest daughter reached that age where she realized we were fibbing about Santa, she just bought into the game. She kept the dream alive for her younger siblings. Ditto for the other children, who each in turn kept alive the magic. Someday they will spin it for their own children. Maybe, after all, Santa does indeed exist. He is a very real part of our Christmas psyches. Just listen very carefully, and you might hear the beat of reindeer hooves on the roof and the jolly laughter that warms a Christmas Eve night.

  Winter Journey

  It is during these short, cold, snowy January days that one starts to pine for summer at the cottage. I daydream about swimming in the lake, skiing, boating, drinking morning coffee on the dock, sitting in the Muskoka chair with a good book in the afternoon sun, and enjoying a bonfire in the evening — no longer dressed in boots and parka, just shorts, T-shirts, shades, and flip-flops.

  Outside now, it is snowing and blowing, and I must bundle up, get out, and do a little more shovelling. There is, however, a certain beauty in this frozen world. I remember our first trek to the family cottage in winter. It was more than thirty-three years ago, shortly after my folks had purchased our island retreat. Crazy or brave, or perhaps simply adventurous, they had decided to take their four children on a long trek to visit the cabin in winter.

  At that time, the backcountry roads were not kept open through the snowy months. We could drive our vehicle to within eighteen kilometres, no closer. We had no snowmobile. Our plan was to ski down the packed road and across the frozen lake, hauling our gear and provisions behind on toboggans, like Arctic adventurers on a trek to the Pole.

  We set off in state of excitement, gliding down the trail, hauling our loads gamely up and down the sweeping hills. Pines were shrouded in heavy snow that blew off and swirled in the wind. Before we had travelled too far, our kid brother, tired from his hundred-metre walk, hitched a ride. The family basset hound trotted gamely ahead, but was not any help. Sometimes he would chase rabbits, falling off the packed trail, and we had to help him out of the deep powder.

  We skied along for half the distance, and then removed the skis and tied them onto the sleds. Off came the ski boots, and we rubbed our frozen toes. We trudged on in winter boots. The miles stretched on, our exuberance waned, and our legs grew heavy. The first sight of the lake was like the first glimpse of water at the end of a long portage. With renewed energy we hopped on the loaded toboggans to glide down that long descent to the shore.

  The lake in winter seemed even more remote and solitary, surrounded by stark, barren, trackless hills. It was also most serene on this late winter’s afternoon when its snow-covered ice was deeply tinted with the gold of the setting sun. We had made it, but before we could get into the cottage we had to grab shovels and dig out the deep snow that had drifted in front of the door. We got a fire started in the box stove, not realizing that it would take hours to chase out the winter chill. Finally, exhausted, we huddled where the heat gathered first, high in the open loft, cuddling mugs of hot chocolate our mom had made.

  Dad stoked the fire with maple and birch logs, and cooked up beef stew in the cast iron bean pot set on the fire. Toques, woollen mittens, snow pants, felt boot-liners, and parkas were hung from the loft railing to dry — the cottage looked like a laundry. The hound curled on the hearth rug, thawing and licking snow from between his pads. Gradually, the log walls soaked up the heat and gave the cottage a cozy warmth.

  The passion of the huskies for their winter work transforms a trip to the cottage during the snowy months into a great adventure.

  The next morning we shovelled a path to the privy and chopped a hole in the ice for water. We strapped on our beavertail snowshoes and headed out into the dense groves of naked birch and poplar, the snow-laden stands of pine, cedar, and balsam, that seemed so thick, black, and impenetrable. We dug snow forts, threw snowballs, and did some ice fishing.

  Since I purchased the cottage, I have not made that winter trek with my own family. Hockey schedules, school activities, and weather seem to get in the way of dreamy plans. Perhaps this March we will put the skis on and set off on our own adventure. They plough the road right past the lake now, so it would only be a couple of kilometres across the frozen ice to the cabin. I have replaced the basset with
huskies, and their passion for winter work will make the journey easier — they will pull the gear. Perhaps it will be too easy and less memorable.

  So, as I look outside my office window at the blustery Muskoka winter’s day, I embrace the memories of that first winter journey to the cottage. It was a hard trek, but an unforgettable adventure.

  The Cottage Rink

  Every winter I debate with myself whether it is worthwhile to put all the time and effort into the building of a little backyard rink that the kids can enjoy. Every year I come to the conclusion that the rink is more effort than it is worth, more work than reward. There is a lot of shovelling, clearing, flooding, and building, and then when the rink is getting near perfect, the weather changes and warms and we get a little rain.

  Still, when the cold weather comes in late November, I instinctively go out to put up the rink boards and set up the light standards that will allow the sheet of ice to get used after dark. Hockey dads are constantly trying to build the perfect backyard rink; boards and lighting and benches to tie skates, painted blue lines and red lines and regulation nets. One home rink nearby has PVC piping running from the home’s eavestroughs to channel the fall rains onto the tarp catchment that covers the floor of the enclosed rink. It is a masterful way of flooding the ice.

  We enjoyed a New Year’s party last winter outside at another neighbourhood rink. It was big — not quite Olympic size, but certainly spacious. Boards surrounded the playing surface and fine netting was hung at either end as puck catchers. A large, long-handled squeegee was used to clean the snow off the ice between periods. Light standards allowed for after-dark play, and a roaring bonfire warmed the spectators, as did the hot rum toddies and the ring-in-the-new-year champagne.