Good days at the cottage, “enough to last us for a whole year.”
A Tear for Summer’s End
I’m sitting in our new gazebo looking out over the water. The screened post-and-beam shelter that sits on a rocky knoll high above our swim rock is one of those cottage projects that we completed this summer. It is a beautiful view. I look up the north arm of the lake; the water is choppy and angry. Gulls float on the breeze, and waves crash on shore. It is a wild day, blustery, but sunny and warm. It is such a day that would usually stir my senses, but today I’m feeling a little melancholy. It is the last weekend before school starts.
This is my least favourite time of year. I know that for many of you the worst time of year is mid-winter, when the days are short, bitterly cold, and snowy. Myself, I hate the end of the cottage season, when the kids go back to school, and those fun summer days at the lake come to an end.
We are up at the cottage for one last summer weekend — but only one of our four kids is able to accompany us on this trip. Our son has hockey already, and Grade 9 orientation, as he is off to high school this year. Our second daughter is home working, and on orientation duty. So our youngest brings a friend, and my wife and I mope about.
Earlier in the week, I had driven through Algonquin Park on a grey, drizzly day. It is a drive I usually enjoy, cruising through the park and winding my way through the hardwood forests of the Madawaska Valley and pretty towns west of our capital. Not on this day, however, as the sullen weather matched my mood. I was on my way to Ottawa with my oldest daughter, taking her back to school. She was entering her second year at Algonquin College, studying broadcast journalism. I was helping her move into a tidy little condo with some friends.
I spent two days helping her get organized, while enduring the agony of assembling some Scandinavian furniture for her room. It is from the same Swedish madman that designed my furniture way back when I had trotted off to university. Finally, when her desk, bed, and dressers were finished pretty much according to the directions, and she had some healthy food other than just pizza to begin her year, it was time to depart. I gave her a hug goodbye, and felt her tears on my shoulder. I turned away and slipped my dark sunglasses on, as tough old father types are not supposed to cry. I told her, with my voice a bit shaky, to stay in touch, study hard, and that I’d miss her, and then I jumped in the truck and was off, letting the salty tears flow down my cheeks as I escaped the city heat. I cried driving away, where nobody would see. I knew she would be fine, and I was happy that she still missed us when away.
I also liked the fact that I had gotten her settled, and that she had decorated her room with family photos and pictures from the cottage. There is one of her upside down in mid-air, about to land in the lake after a lost gunwale bobbing battle with her brother. There is a photo of her kayaking, one of her diving off swim rock, one carving through the water on a slalom ski, and another of her swimming in from the floating raft. The photos are blown up large and framed, and, I notice, in each photo she is smiling and laughing.
I am happy that, when she is feeling down and alone far away at school, she will be able to look at the photos and remember those fun summer cottage days with the family and smile. And thinking about her off at school, smiling, makes me happy. I imagine her out on the lake on this day, paddling her kayak through the swirling whitecaps, whooping loudly and howling with laughter, and I feel better — sitting in a gazebo on my lake, my hair tossed by the wind.
My Big Brother
We drift in our pontoon boat between the two islands. Everyone is quiet, contemplating the task at hand. There are a few tears. Clutched in my lap is an old leather saddlebag, well-worn from miles on the back of a horse. Inside the leather bag is a buckskin satchel, beautifully decorated with quills and beadwork.
We cut the engine, and our world is silent. I would love to be able to speak, to say something wise and witty and memorable, but I cannot. I watch the shoreline of our island as the boat moves slowly in the current. I see the rocks and trees through misty eyes. My two huskies walk from the forest and stand at attention on the rocky knoll that dips to the lake.
There are memories — too many memories. We had lived so much of our lives together. We were playmates. We shared a room through most of our youth. We shared adventures, both real and imagined. We grew up together. I followed him through life.
Four loons catch my attention. They have followed us into the narrow straight between our island and the next. They swim single file, like a funeral procession. Their red eyes stare, not at me, but at the bag I carry. I hold it close. I am reminded that my older brother could call the loons like no other. He would cup his hands to his mouth and blow a high-pitched yodel. The loons would gather and respond.
He taught me this little trick. He taught me a lot. And in this, I was very fortunate, as he was the most talented person I have ever known. As young boys, I remember him teaching me how to catch snapping turtles. This pleased our father. He also taught me where to find, and how to catch, garter snakes by the dozens. In this, we discovered how many snakes we could fit into the pockets of our jeans. This pleased our mother, especially when the hidden snakes made it through the wash cycle with the jeans.
He taught me to be strong, proud, and stubborn. We had a pact that we would not tattle on each other. When we were in trouble, we would take our discipline unflinching. Sometimes he was to blame, sometimes it was my fault. I remember clumsily falling into the river we were not supposed to be playing near. He pulled me out, and then, when my soggy clothes gave us away, he stood beside me and did not complain.
We canoed together. One night in Algonquin Park on a family trip, when we were not yet teenagers, we slept outside under an overturned canoe and tarp shelter. A black bear entered our camp and we both saw it wander past, stepping over our feet. It started rifling through a nearby pack. I was scared stiff, but when I glanced at my older brother for comfort, I saw he was smiling.
We grew into young men. We had our battles, as brothers do, but I always looked up to him. His adventurous spirit took him West, and I followed. We became cowboys together. He taught me to be a horseman — to ride, pack, shoe — and in this work I grew up. My first year working for a horse outfit in Banff, Alberta, I remember packing a string of eight horses, supplying feed to one of the horse camps. It was a drizzly, cold day, and I was feeling a little miserable, leading my string, tied nose to tail, up the muddy trail north over Allenby Pass. Suddenly, a fully packed mule came trotting down the trail heading south. I wondered from whom the pack animal had escaped. Then another, packed full with gear, stopped only briefly before trotting past. Six more mules appeared and went. I stared after them in confusion.
Then I heard the sound of a loping horse, splashing through the muck, and my older brother appeared out of the mist and rain, his huge black riding cape glistening with water and flapping behind. “Did you see a bunch of obstinate mules go past?” he asked. I asked if he had lost them, to which he laughed and galloped off, yelling back, “I taught them the way!” I tried the same thing on my return journey the next day, and then spent two days tracking pack animals and picking up gear.
My big brother was not perfect. He was an anachronism — born too late on this earth. He would have been a better fit in this world two hundred years ago.
Now, he has left it much too early.
Our boat drifts just off our island’s shore. My sister places a hand-woven wreath into the water, and I carry the buckskin bag to the side of the boat. As the dogs, the loons, and the family watch, I spill the contents through the wreath and into the water.
He was my mentor, my hero, my best friend, and my big brother. I thought he was invincible.
The Funeral Wreath
The funeral wreath turned out to be a good idea. At first I was sceptical, for decorations and ornaments were not his style. Superfluous was not his way.
Still, the ladies worked away at fashioning the wreath, weaving pine boughs and willow
branches with lakeside reeds and grasses into a pretty but earthy oval display. It was woven by skilled artist hands, nothing that I could have accomplished. It was a work of love, I could see that now.
Most importantly, it gave us a visual, after the ashes had been poured and scattered in the water, the lake’s currents swirling them around and pulling them down, funnelling them away from the shelf that surrounded our island, and down into the dark, murky, silty depths. The bottom fell away to some hundred metres here, the deepest part of the lake.
The ashes were gone but we watched the wreath, watched the wind pick up and the waves carry it away towards the west shore. We listened to “Sunshine,” one of his favourites, and watched the funeral wreath fade and then disappear into the obscure line of water and horizon. We said our goodbyes, and then started the engine. A wild wind was blowing from the northeast now, pushing up whitecaps. Perhaps it was his final word. We headed for the dock, everyone sombre, quiet, and immersed in their own thoughts and memories.
As we pulled in we saw the loons come. They flew in from the surrounding lakes and landed in our sheltered bay, hooting to one another. When a flotilla of a dozen or so had gathered with our resident birds, they braved the rough water and floated around the island. I headed back to swim rock, where I stood with my two huskies and watched the loons swim past, in single file, like an honour guard. I sat on the rock and cried. The dogs licked my face.
There is a place on our lake called Indian Bay. I’m not sure if it is politically correct to call it that or not, but it is the name given to it by locals. It is a beautiful spot, a lengthy horseshoe-shaped beach of powdery sand, soft and silky and clean. The remote beach is sheltered in a secluded, uninhabited bay. Our kids often ask us to pack a lunch and boat there for an afternoon. It is a break from the rugged rock that surrounds our island. We beach our pontoon boat and start a driftwood fire, while the kids run up and down the narrow stretch of sand, build castles by the water, and frolic in the shallow bay.
Two days after the committal, we decide to head to Indian Bay. We load up the extended family, towels, lunch, pails and shovels, Frisbees, and footballs, and motor six kilometres east up the lake. As we draw near, we are surprised to see that a couple of other boats already occupy our secret spot. We seldom see anyone here — we usually have it to ourselves. Feeling unsociable today, we decide instead on a smaller, hundred-metre stretch of sand nearby, not as grand, but just as pretty. This is a place we’ve never been.
Drawing close, my sister spies something vaguely familiar lying on the soft sand. We all stare, unbelievingly. It is our wreath — far off course from where we had last seen it, floating towards the western shoreline. Here it was, lying on this pristine crescent of pink sand, swept up like a shipwrecked castaway.
Should we leave it here? No — it was here to be found. My sister gathered it up and we transported the wreath back to our cottage. She leaned it up against a tall cedar there, a tree just on shore close to where we had said goodbye to a brother.
The withered wreath rests there still, at the foot of the cedar, underneath a wooden plaque, half hidden in the foliage along the shoreline. On the plaque is written “Alexander Duncan Ross — 1958 to 2005.” We knew him as Sandy.
The Cottage — Life at the Lake
The “Lake” has a name, but nobody seems to use it. We are simply heading to the lake, or going up to the island, and both are more terms of endearment than descriptions of a destination. Here we have time to think, time to read. We have plenty of time for contemplation. We go down to the dock and stare vacantly over the bay. We perform insignificant tasks without conscience nagging us with guilt. We take idle walks, hear the call of the loon, and observe the flight of a raven and the shifting winds and waves.
The Lake
Henry David Thoreau says, “A lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.”
There is something about the water that brings us to the shore, so that we can sit and look out over it. The lake is our cottage view-scape, ever-changing, its sound and texture altering constantly. It is mesmerizing, bewitching, and expressive, and one of the constants that makes our cottage experience so special.
Whether we have a huge lakeside home or a humble cabin, it is the desire to live on the water that draws us. The lake is everything. The lake is why we are here. We rise in the morning and look out over the water. We take our coffee to the dock. Perhaps we sit reading, but we are constantly distracted by the water.
The lake is full of life. Our loons and mergansers make it their home. We admire their freedom as they dive and slice through the water. They rise on the lake surface, flex their wings, and then dance across the water, windmill their wings, and shoot up spray like a skier. In the evening, the fish jump, and minnows hide in the dock pilings. The kids catch frogs and crayfish, and try to avoid the leeches that skulk in the silty shallows. They are fascinated by the water spiders, which dart about in apparent confusion. In the night we listen to the waves breaking on shore, hear the loon’s shrill call, and the slap of the beaver tail.
Throughout the day the lake is the focal point of our summer fun and recreation. We love to swim and play in the water. There is constant laughter, splashing, diving, and jumping. We take the canoe out and explore, paddling along the shore. We ski, sail, or wake-board the lake’s surface. We fish its depths, and snorkel and dive to find its hidden treasures. The lake’s waters are beautifully refreshing on a hot summer’s day.
As it gives us much joy, the water also demands our respect. The lake, though so full of life, can also bring death. On more than one occasion our lake has taken someone, a boating accident, or a disaster on its winter ice. It humbles us. The lake sometimes flexes its muscles and shows its harsh side. Then, it turns around to let us know it can be soft and gentle. It ravages our docks, and then sings us to sleep. The lake waters can whip themselves into a fury, waves crash onto the rocky shore, shooting plumes of spray skyward in an angry and fearsome display. The lake screams and hollers, and then suddenly it is calm, and the ripples lap the pebble beach, whispering the lake’s secrets, so quietly we have trouble hearing.
My mother loves living on the water. When, as a young family, we lived for a year on the prairies, she hated the open, dry, dusty, grassy expanse of land. The lakes there, she remembers, were no more than reedy ponds. She wanted to return to lake country. When I lived out west as a young man, in the spectacular and rugged Rocky Mountains, she would visit and feel trapped, closed in, and claustrophobic. The awe-inspiring peaks were not her favourite vista — she preferred looking out over the water. She loves living at the water’s edge.
I guess cottagers are like that. As island cottagers, our lake surrounds us and contains us. We can never quite escape from its presence. Its calm waters are a mirror to the surroundings, and a window to the soul.
All for a Blueberry Pie
My wife and mother-in-law wanted to go blueberry picking this morning, so I dropped them off at a neighbouring island about a mile distant from ours, one that always boasts a bumper berry crop. Their plan was to pick enough berries in the cooler morning hours for a couple of pies, and then to shut it down before the midday heat. I set them ashore with some plastic buckets, and then, with a wave and a promise to pick them up in an hour, I boated home.
It is that time of year when the wild blueberries are everywhere and ripe for the picking. We have some bushes growing on our island, enough for a handful for the morning cereal or pancakes, but not enough for a full pie. Unfortunately with kids and dogs running around the place, most of the blueberries are lost.
My wife tried to convince me to join her, but I know I will accomplish more here working on the cabin, where a list of summer chores needs to be tackled. Besides, I find picking berries to be a mundane and tedious task. My mind tends to wander, and when I have barely picked enough to cover the bottom of a small coffee cup, wh
ile my wife has filled a large juice jug, I tend to get in trouble. “No, dear, I will stay, watch the kids, and your dad and I can tackle the porch roof.”
After another cup of morning coffee to fully wake us and prepare us for our chores, my father-in-law and I set to work on the porch, pulling off some of the roof joists that are rotting and replacing them with new timber. We hammer in new supports, and fix up places where the roof has started to sag. We take a late morning break and admire our work.
As well as being productive, it has seemed a very quiet and peaceful morning. Only the distant screeching of some noisy ravens interrupts the stillness. The kids spend some time playing in the water out front where we can keep an eye on them, jumping off the dock and wrestling and throwing each other off the swim raft. Now they have retired to the cottage and are absorbed in a board game.
We carry on with some other chores. I buck up some wood and split it for the woodbox. I hear the wailing of the far-off birds again, angry gulls perhaps; not ravens surely. I cut and peel a tall, slim pine for use as a new flagpole, to replace the old one damaged in the wind. My father-in-law attaches the hardware, rope, and pulley system and we raise the flag. We grab a couple of cold beers from the fridge in the boathouse and salute the Maple Leaf.
The midday sun is getting hot, so I jump into the lake to cool down and to wash away the sawdust. My compatriot fits in his custom-made ear plugs to do the same. He was a navy diver in his younger days, and damaged his one eardrum. The fancy ear pieces allow him to swim. His earplugs also drown out all sound, so I’m not surprised that, as we sit there drying in the sun, it is only I who hears again that distant wailing of the water birds, and it is only I who thinks that the squeals, squawks, and general screeching of said birds sound a lot like they are shrilly crying our names. I shake it off.
Still in a Daze at the Cottage Page 10