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Leave It to Beaver

A friend of mine was attacked by a beaver. Now, don’t laugh, it’s true. He told us so himself. We were at the cottage and there were a few of us, outdoor types, sitting around the campfire exchanging bear stories, when he joins in to tell us how he was nearly mauled by this plump rodent. You can imagine our mirth at his little yarn — we all shared a good laugh. He was serious, though, and visibly shaken recalling the experience.

This friend is a forestry worker, a consultant. As such, he spends much of his time in the outdoors. He is in the bush through all seasons and in any weather, sunshine, rain, and snow. Until the time of the attack, his only worries were the occasional black bear, and the blackflies and mosquitoes that torment him each spring.

He has a dog that accompanies him on his wilderness treks, a Siberian husky that loves the outdoors, the adventure, and the exercise. Well, not too long ago, as he was busy working in the bush, our friend heard the dog barking nearby. Now, huskies are not natural barkers, so he deemed the disturbance worth investigating.

He found the dog facing off with a rather large beaver — the beaver was confidently eyeing the canine. Fearing for the beaver’s well-being, this caring forestry worker called off his well-behaved husky and ordered it to stay at a distance. He was fascinated to see this beaver so far from any water. There was no pond, lake, or river in the near vicinity. As he was admiring the pluck of the adventurous mammal, he was shocked to find himself under attack.

The beaver charged, and our poor friend was quickly backpedalling. The awkward-looking attacker darted in with more speed than seemed possible. Our hero dipped and dodged, weaved and wobbled, until he found himself with his back to a tree. The beaver gnashed his large front teeth. It seemed like curtains for our friend, but like a well-written movie, he found a large stick lying by his right hand. Just in the nick of time, he stuck out the broken branch and held the ferocious creature at bay.

The beaver backed off a little, and, seizing the opportunity, our brave forester sprinted off. He did not look behind him, did not worry about his dog, did not stop until he had reached the safety of his truck. You can imagine how we laughed when we heard this campfire tale, giggled until our bellies hurt. I feel sorry for laughing now.

I have shared my friend’s scary account with others around the lake, and in turn have been given several similar stories of suspense involving the ferocious flat-tailed tree-eater. One poor fellow required stitches in his backside. A beaver had blocked his way over a bridge. He left the safety of his vehicle to gently shoo the cute critter from his path. The beaver charged, and the man turned and ran. The fleet-footed furball caught him, pinning the man between truck and bridge guard rail as he struggled to open his door. The beaver latched on to the startled victim’s posterior, gnawing on it like it was a poplar tree.

An old rancher friend from the west told me of his own experience. When out riding his horse, repairing fence, he caught site of a beaver far from any pond. Before the cowboy could spit a tobacco plug, the creature had lunged at his mount’s front legs. The beaver put the run on the horse in such an expert fashion that the cowpoke considered training the agile rodent for cutting cattle.

Now, we all have our cottage stories of Castor canadensis — of the damage they cause, the trees they thin, the marsh systems they help create, or simply the sound of their wide tails smacking water on a still summer’s night. What has put me in mind of these violent tales is that today, as I am writing this, it is Canada Day, a day when we salute our country and feel pride for our flag. It is true we often complain that, as national symbols, the Americans have their bald eagle, the Russians their fearsome bear, and the Brits their king of the beasts, the lion. We have our amphibious rodent. Though these bucktoothed engineers may be industrious, hard-working, and skilled, they have never been credited as ferocious warriors.

“Well, now you know the rest of the story.”

It is so quiet and peaceful here — it seems as if you have the world all to yourself.

First Job

My first job was for $1.25 an hour, cutting the extensive grass around the resort at the end of our lake. I would whack the high weeds along the lakeshore with a curved metal scythe and manhandle the smoky, belching gas mower over the unruly lawn that surrounded the wood cabins.

Sometimes I would shred some bramble with the mower blades and cut into a hornets’ nest. The boss would laugh at the sight of me sprinting up the gravel laneway. When there was not much wind, the blackflies and mosquitoes would buzz around my head, landing in the sweat streams that flowed from my stringy hair. Hey, this was the seventies, and I had a mullet. What can I say? I had just turned fifteen years of age, and this was the dream job, away from town, close to the cottage.

At noon I would sit on the steep shoreline eating my bagged lunch, all the while looking over with envy at our island. I could see my siblings and cousins running wild, chasing each other through the trees, following their imaginations. In the heat of the afternoon, as I put fibreglass patches on old rental canoes, I saw the gang out with the boat water-skiing. They skied in circles and figure eights, and when they came close to the mainland they would wave at me. I would wave back.

They envied me for my work and the money I was making. I envied them their freedom. If I stared out too long the boss would yell down to me, “Done those canoes yet? If you’d rather be over there playing, you best go, I’m not paying you to daydream.”

I spent the summer staining cabins and painting trim, moving rocks and splitting and stacking wood. When boats sidled up to the dock, I would stop what I was doing, run down, and top up their tanks. They would ask me if I was one of the Ross boys from the island. They would tell me about where the fish were biting on the lake. They would warn me of the big storm that would hit the next day. I would take the information home, and sometimes it would be right.

When people wandered into the little confectionery store, I would act as clerk or cashier. Sometimes I would exchange a couple of hours of work for some ice cream bars for my family at the cottage.

At five o’clock quitting time, as I stored the metal weed whacker and the ancient lawn mower, I would see our boat leave the dock and head my way. It was a great feeling, the end of the workday. I would get back to the cabin and throw on my swim shorts — wash off the day’s dust and grime in the lake. Dad would take me for a spin on the skis. Mom would clang the dinner bell.

I remember it as a summer when I was leaving my childhood days behind. After a five-day workweek, I would be given fifty dollars. I had never seen so much money. My wages went to a new slalom ski from Canadian Tire, bright orange with a yellow dragon. It still hangs in the boathouse today, and when I take it down and see the cracking and rotting thick rubber footholds, feel the scratches and chips that are a testament to years of use, memories of my first job, and an amazing summer, come flooding back.

The Perfect Storm

The day had been hot and humid. The lake had been calm. We enjoyed some swimming and skiing, and now, at dusk, we light a driftwood fire on the rocky point.

Before we see the sky darkening up the north arm, we feel the weather changing. It seeps into your senses, and your mind tells you that the last time you felt this way, a storm was coming. Not to let you feel too good about your instincts, however, you realize that it was an hour ago that you noticed the loons calling each other in a frantic way; now they have disappeared. Your dogs snuck quietly away from the bonfire and have undoubtedly crawled under the porch. Only the gulls play in the approaching blow, riding high on the wind and then arcing back low over the water.

The wind quickens with shocking speed. It blows the water into a rugged chop, whitecaps curl over, and trees begin to bend. Lightning at first lights the distant sky like small explosions. As it moves down the lake, you can see the jagged forks touch the water. The storm gets closer. Waves crash into the rocky shoreline. A lone fishing boat motors quickly for shore.

We douse the fire with our bucket, although I am certain that the coming rain would do the job for us, and then we gather up everything and head for the cabin. Towels are pulled from the clothesline and thrown into a basket. The children secure their toys and tubes, and I make sure that the boat is covered and made tight to the dock. The wind howls through with more velocity, so we have to shout to hear each other. I tie down the canvas door of the kid’s wall tent. The flag flaps noisily.

Here at the cottage, a storm brings a wild and astonishing beauty.

We light the propane lights and oil lanterns in the cabin, and the children pull out a deck of cards. I sit outside under the covered porch; the howling wind and rolling waves leave me feeling serene. The rain hits suddenly; it does not start slowly but gets thrown down. Horizontal drops pelt the cottage windows and buffet me under the porch roof — so I sneak inside, and we all gather to watch the show from the big front window. Thunder shakes the cabin, and the kids scream with excitement. They count aloud the seconds between thunder and lightning. Boom and bolt happen simultaneously, and prongs of lightning seem to strike into our little bay.

My wife asks me to go out to see if the dogs are all right. She thinks she has heard the crash of a tree as it hit the privy. She wonders aloud whether the swim raft has broken its moorings and floated to the far end of the lake. She thinks I should go check on the boat. I watch the lightning touch down nearby, and wonder whether getting life insurance with her encouragement was such a good idea.

The storm rages for about an hour, and then the clouds move off to the south, the sound and light disappear over the distant hills. The lake calms perceptively, and the stars come out. Still, the children decide they will sleep in the loft rather than the tent tonight. I wander around to check on things. The island smells damp and cool. Besides some broken branches and boughs, all is well.

I love a good storm. I recall being caught outside in many. I remember canoe trips, scrambling to get tents set up when a squall hits, and mountain storms on horse pack trips, trying to get horses fed while the wind whips your long slicker and rain streams from your hat. Nothing beats a cottage storm, when you are warm and cozy, under the soft glow of the oil lamps with a fire burning in the wood stove, looking out at the sound and fury over the lake.

At home, a storm like this would have brought worries of power outages, surges, driving problems. Here at the cottage, it just brings a wild and astonishing beauty … the perfect storm.

Holding the Fort

Some stories are better started at the end.

My wife, sister, and brother-in-law, back from a shopping expedition, came walking into a cottage thick with smoke. The cabin was a disaster. There I stood, my pants soaked in an area that suggested I had wet myself, hot dogs smeared into my jeans and scattered about my feet, the charred remains of something inedible visible on the oven rack behind the open stove door, and my shirt ripped and tattered and scorched black. On my face was a smile that probably looked quite idiotic — but it was simply meant to calm the horrified expressions that greeted me and to convey the message that all was okay and you won’t believe this.

Their worry was not for my predicament, however, which became evident when the ladies asked loudly in unison, “Are the kids all right?”

“Oh, yes.” I had forgotten about them.

“Where are they?”

“Oh — they’re out there.” I made a sweeping gesture with my hand, indicating a wide radius where the children might be found. “They’re on the island — somewhere …”

My wife gave me a practised glower. My sister shook her head disbelievingly. My brother-in-law smiled — he had one-upped me in the constant understated competition of looking good to the spouses.

Now, perhaps it’s best if I go back to the beginning.

My sister has always thought me totally inept in all things responsible and domestic. It was with a countenance of worry that she had begrudgingly agreed to leave me in charge of our combined seven children, while the three mature adults headed to town to restock our provisions.

“Don’t let them play too close to the water. Don’t let them play with the axe or the chainsaw. Don’t let them play with matches. Don’t encourage them to swim to shore.” And then to her oldest boy the heartfelt plea — “Watch over your brothers and cousins, please.”

In their absence, I was determined to prove my sister’s lack of confidence misplaced. I went back to my work, sealing the cracks between logs and around window and door frames, but diligently, on the quarter hour, I hollered out into the thick forest asking if all was well. Each time, the response was affirmative. On the occasion of my fifteenth check, I received the response, “What’s for lunch?”

“Hot dogs!” I bellowed, wanting to sound like I had a plan.

So back to the cabin I went, lit the propane oven, and tossed in a dozen buns. I placed a pot full of wieners and water on the gas element, then flicked my butane igniter — poof, easy. I hung up the lighter, very pleased with myself. I felt my stomach getting quite warm. I looked down, and to my horror saw that my paint-stained, soiled work shirt was afire. I patted it gingerly with my open palm, which made a “whoosh, whoosh” sound as it fanned the flame. Now, I knew what I was supposed to do in an emergency like this, but I was alone in a cottage far from civilization, and I would have felt quite silly rolling around with this small flame burning on my belly. So I waved my hand harder, which served to both spread the fire and knock the pot of wieners and water from their stovetop perch — water unfortunately soaking my pants but avoiding the fire.

I rolled on the ground. I wasn’t burnt, but it was a mess. Then I heard the boat docking. I panicked and looked for the broom — seeing instead black smoke billowing out of the oven.

Now, in this, the last chance I will ever be afforded to “hold the fort,” I did learn a lesson. The spray-in foam insulation is very flammable before it cures. So, if you’ve been working with it, guys, and wiping your hands on your work shirts, be very careful to not burn your wieners.

Death of a Dog

Unfortunately, I have buried many dogs in my lifetime — such is the canine business that I am in. But the one who lies beneath a stand of old cedars on our island’s highest point was the first to be laid to rest at the cottage.

The day before had been like any other at the lake. The sun was warm, and we had spent the day playing in and on the water. The dog had run his usual distances, watching over the children in their play, keeping his eye on us, making sure to miss nothing and that nothing was amiss.

Macky was not only a pet, but also a sled dog and my leader. He had worked by my side for years, helping me to earn my living. When his winter work was over, his happiest days were when he saw us loading up the truck with paddles and life jackets, propane tanks and fishing rods — criteria for him that signalled a trip to the cottage. He loved coming to the island because it meant a world of freedom, a place surrounded by water where he could run to his heart’s content. Nothing ever escaped his attention, especially if it smelt of trouble or adventure.

When I woke from the boathouse bunkie in the morning, Macky was not there to greet me, as was his usual custom. I found him sick and distraught, lying under the boughs of an old spruce. He groaned. His stomach was rock hard.

Death had joined Mack to the placed he loved.

The day was dark and stormy. Thunder bellowed from the west and sheets of lightning lit the water. I picked up the dog and ran for the boat. The remoteness that was a desired part of our cottage escape was suddenly an enemy, and the drive to town was long. We made it to the vet in time to see the dog’s last breath, and I knew that if this had not happened at the cottage, perhaps we could have prolonged his life.

I wept gently as I dug the hole for Macky, hacking away at tree roots and prying out rocks until it was sufficiently deep. I laid the dog’s muscular, handsome black and white body inside, tucked in his enormous paws, and used his old sleeping blanket as a shroud. On my hands and knees, I packed in the damp, spongy brown soil with a flat-faced shovel, pushing it down until the hole was full, swollen with its new burden. Then I marked the grave with a flat piece of granite I pulled from the lake.

When this was done, my children joined me looking down at the mounded earth. My oldest cried with me, as we both knew we would never again see this old dog running wild at our cottage. My youngest, not fully understanding, tilted her head back and looked up at me, concerned for my tears. She thought it was only she who wept.

We don’t know what happened. Perhaps he had eaten something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps it was just his time. The old-timers on the lake gave their theories — poison toads, tainted mushrooms, reaction to a bee sting. What was indisputable was that he had lived well, a long and full life.

Though he may have managed to live slightly longer if we were home and closer to help, in the end death had joined Macky to the place he loved. We can all wish for a similar end.

First Ski

Learning to water-ski is a little bit like learning to ride a bicycle. Okay, so one of them is on dry land and one is in the water, one of them is on two wheels and the other is on two boards. Still, it is balance and trying, and falling and trying again, and skinning your knee or swallowing lake water, and then trying one more time.

With training wheels off, you hold the seat of your kid’s bike and run along behind. You let go for a second and the bike starts to wobble, so you lunge forward, grab on, and run some more. You might just be getting into the best shape of your life. Finally, on the umpteenth try, you let go and the child just pedals away. You jog a bit further, but you know the time has come. You stop and try to cheer, but you are wheezing, hunched over, and gasping for breath. So you delicately give a thumbs-up.

My nine-year-old son got up on water skis this week. He has been working hard at it this summer, trying to keep up with his older sisters. We do not have the fancy training bars on the boat, or any particular model of learning skis. When the children’s feet fit into the smallest pair of water skis we own, they are welcome to give it a try.

They get into the water, hold the rope, yell “Hit it,” and then we see where it takes us. We get into the water with them, hold them steady, bombard them with little tidbits of useless advice, and then watch helplessly as they are jerked quickly to the surface of the water. Just as quickly, they get tossed back into the lake with a violent splash and a clatter of skis. Their legs go in different directions, so you are sure their limber bodies will be torn in two.

We swim up to them and tell them that they were almost up. We urge them to give it another try. “Don’t let go so quickly,” we tell them. They trust us and try again — this time hanging on to the tow bar far too long after they have fallen, dragging themselves through the water like a torpedo, swallowing half of the lake. “Just about,” we yell when they finally surface.

I do not think any of us really know what the secret to getting up on the skis is — at least I know I don’t. We give advice culled from our years of skiing, but until everything comes together for them, in their own brains, they are going nowhere.

Then the time comes. He is up — unsteady, yes, but up and skiing. His skis drift apart, and with body language you try to will him out of the splits. He bends too far forward and bobs over some rough water, but refuses to go down. The wide smile on his face is reward enough for all the patience and repetition. You try to cheer, but instead take in a mouthful of lake water and only sputter and cough and stick a thumbs-up. You realize you are freezing to death. You realize that the boat is coming back around and you’re bobbing in the middle of the bay. You swim frantically for shore and realize that you were in better shape way back when you were teaching him to ride his bicycle.

It’s all worth it, because he is skiing, and he is feeling good about himself. You know that now that he has gotten up, he will always get up, always be able to ski. Like learning to ride a bike, when you put it all together and rise out of the water … there is no going back. You never seem to forget the secret, the secret that can be learned but never shared.

Like learning to ride a bike — when they put it all together and rise from the water, there is no going back.

He will open his eyes in the morning — the late morning — and look out at a lake as calm as glass, the perfect, still water for skiing. He will say, “Dad, can I go skiing?” You will put down your book and your coffee, drop whatever it is you are doing, and drag him around the lake. Sometimes you will ask yourself, Why did I ever teach him to do this? Mostly, you are just happy that you don’t have to swim around for hours in the cool lake water anymore, helping him out. Well, until it comes time for your next one, the six-year-old, the youngest, to give it a go.

Life Is a Game

I am feeling very dejected this evening. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my head in my hands, looking down at a mess of cards and a cribbage board, while my seven-year-old card shark of a daughter dances around the cottage chanting, “I skunked daddy!” It doesn’t seem very long ago that we were teaching her the game and taking it easy on her while she learned. Now, I try my hardest, but … “I smell something skunky,” she sings. “Is there a smell in the room?”

“It’s a good game for learning her numbers, isn’t it?” I grumble to my wife.

I don’t know about you, but we play a lot of games with the whole family when we are at the cottage. Most evenings, after the supper dishes have been cleaned up, we will sit around the big kitchen table and pull out a game. Sometimes, when the rain clouds have closed in and it’s wet and grey outside, we might spend an afternoon rolling dice and moving little men around a board. There is something about the cottage and the tradition of games.

Perhaps it is because we have no electricity at our island cabin, and therefore no television, video games, or any such diversions. I believe it is more than that, though. A trip to the cottage is a step back to simpler times, and those simpler times are more conducive to quality family time.

We have a storage bench where all the games are kept. Some have been there for thirty-some years, since I was a kid. Some are more modern. A couple are missing a piece or two, replaced by makeshift cards or odd trinkets. Some of the boxes have been taped up, while others are in mint condition.

We have original editions of Clue and Monopoly, two perennial favourites. There are Risk, Full House, Masterpiece, and Life. There are checkers and Chinese checkers, chess, backgammon, and Mastermind. We have an old Rummoli game where we can teach the children how to gamble, in the same manner and on the same board where I learned how to play poker with my parents when I was young. In my dad’s handwriting on one corner of the board, now slightly faded and barely legible, is the order of what beats what, from royal flush down to ace high.

Of course, there are several decks of cards, most of them complete. We love a good round of euchre or hearts. There are modern games like The Settlers of Catan and Cranium. When bigger groups gather, we can make fools of ourselves playing Pictionary, Balderdash, Trivial Pursuit, or charades. My wife and I will sit on the dock on a quiet afternoon and play a game of Scrabble.

I remember my siblings and me cleaning up after supper while my parents went for an evening paddle. Then we would get a game set up and eagerly await their return. Playing a game with the parents was always something we looked forward to — it was a memorable part of cottage life.

Another memory is of my parents going to a friend’s for dinner. They returned talking about all that happened in the evening, and I could hear them from my bed. I caught snippets of their conversation: some murdered body, hit over the head with a candlestick, in a ballroom. From what I could understand, there were secret passages between rooms — how cool is that in the imaginative mind of a five-year-old? My mother had been hanging out with some professor in a billiard room, but my dad didn’t seem to mind, even when the academic turned out to be a killer. My dad seemed to have followed some sexpot named Scarlet around, and this did seem to annoy my mother. I thought, boy adults have fun: people murdered, and what a mansion their friends must have! A game called Clue had just been introduced to North America.

Now, we sit around the table staring covertly at our secret notes, going from room to room playing detective in a race to find out who murdered Mr. Body. I am always Colonel Mustard. At one time the kids had a good giggle when I would jabber away in a rendition of an old colonel’s English accent. Now, they just roll their eyes.

When we are at home during the school year, we sometimes think that it would be nice to set aside one evening a week for a family game night. Great idea, but it just never happens. Life with children is too busy. They are on the go, or we have other places to be and more important things to do.

At the cottage there is always time, and sitting around the table with the whole family and an old board game remains a wonderful way to spend it.

Never turn your back on your sister.

Cottage Guests

It doesn’t matter how well you know them, cottage guests will always change when they come to your summer abode. Typically, there are three main types. There are those who show up with a sporting goods store strapped to their SUVs. They have canoes or kayaks, water skis and wakeboards, fishing rods, snorkelling gear, and baseball gloves. These active guests are up every morning at 6:00 a.m., and don’t stop all weekend. They energize you. They tire you out.

Then there are the guests who park their backsides in the sitting room or on the dock and act like they are visiting some swank, four-star, all-inclusive resort. They like to say things like, “My beer is empty,” “I’m hungry, when is lunch usually served?” and “You should build yourself a little trolley — it would make it easier for you to bring down all those appetizers and drinks, and save you some trips.” They are always on time for dinner, and afterwards, while you clean up, they take the canoe out for a romantic evening paddle. “You should try it,” they say.

Finally, there are the guests who immediately fall in love with the place, constantly smiling and shaking their heads in wonder. They are immediately at ease and totally comfortable in their surroundings. They like to read, and they tend to enjoy the simple things in life. They also like to help out with cottage projects, daily chores, and in cooking meals. Meal preparation becomes a social, fun time, with everyone getting involved. Some will volunteer to take charge of a homemade pizza night or some ethnic-themed meal.

While these visitors quickly fall into the relaxation mode, the others remain nervous and fidgety, having had to leave their workplace technology behind. They are out of their comfort zones, without their cellphones, laptops, and BlackBerries. In fact, they do not know what else to use their hands for. You find them nervously pacing around the dock in the morning, stretching and flexing their thumbs. During the drive home they check every kilometre to see if they are “back in range,” and when they miraculously re-enter this connected zone, they immediately fall silent, all their concentration focussed on their techno addictions.

The children also like to invite their own young friends to spend some time at the cottage. Some are bored — “There is nothing to do!” Translation: they miss their cellphones, computers, video games, and text messages. These might remain friends, but they are city friends. The kids seem to have an innate ability to recognize the friends who will fit in, use their imaginations, and join in the time-tested cottage activities. At their summer escape, they want to surround themselves with those who will unabashedly play their made-up games of manhunt, James Bond, capture the flag, and, after dark, the sinister murder game. They play old, traditional board games, and can spend whole days frolicking in the lake, never complaining that they’re cold.

The best cottage guests? They create memories that make you laugh. They suddenly pull harmonicas out of their pockets at the evening campfire and entertain. Who knew they were musical? They have their own fun and funky fireside songs and games. They religiously rise in the early morning, jump into the lake, and scream like some phantom lake monsters. They get the kids up early and take them out fishing. A fellow cottage friend said she had a guest who would play the trombone every morning at the end of the dock while the sun was rising. Others will lie out on the swim rock at night, looking up at the stars and pointing out to the kids all the constellations.

There is always that brief moment of contemplation — before the dive.

The guests we invite to our cottage, good friends and family alike, are those that we care enough about to want to share our favourite place on earth. The good ones do not simply take from the experience, but rather add to it. By doing so, they tend to find their way into our cottage lore. Also, by doing so, they tend to ensure themselves of another invite!

The Food Chain

My wife stumbled onto the battle scene first. She had gone to retrieve the watering can, which is stored under the front porch of the cottage, when she jumped back with a shrill screech.

Of course this drew the attention of my children, who, although they never seem to hear the clang of the dinner bell calling them for a meal, respond at once to a horrified yelp. They arrived at the scene even before I bravely came running to the rescue. We peered under the wood decking, crouching cautiously to gain a better view.

A long black, green, and yellow garter snake was the reason for my wife’s consternation, but it was the battle that was ensuing that caught the fancy of the rest of us. There was a tug-of-war going on between the snake and a huge, brown, wrinkly toad. The snake had one of the toad’s legs in its hinged mouth and was working hard to envelop the rest of the poor creature — a feat that seemed to me to be impossible.

In a fatherly way, I was a little concerned to have the children take in this morbid scene. The kids simply found the whole thing captivating — although the descriptive words “gross” and “sick” were generously applied. We watched as the snake gained some ground, pulling the toad farther under the wooden porch. Then we watched the toad hop gamely towards the light.

The battle continued for much of the day, and for most of the length of the deck. Though I lost interest after a time and returned to my work, the children exhibited an untiring fascination. They peered through the cracks and gave a running commentary. They cheered for the toad. When I shuffled them off into the cabin for bed that night, the battle had not yet been won — or lost.

The children were up unusually early the next day and quickly out to the covered porch, but after searching exhaustively and peering through every crack, they reported that the fight must have ended. They concluded that the toad must have escaped.

Old-fashioned fun — shooting pebbles into the lake.

Later that same day, I came across the snake sunning itself on a rock by the water’s edge. Evidence dictated that the battle’s outcome had been very different from what my kids had hoped for, or I had thought possible. As the snake slithered slowly away, I could see the huge bulge halfway along the length of its sleek body. It looked like I feel after a huge Thanksgiving dinner.

I wondered whether to tell the family about my find. I decided it best, for why hide nature’s truths? I have seen a lot of things, but this was a lesson for me as well. I never thought it possible for this snake to swallow a toad the size of a softball.

And the lesson was not over. Not long after, as we were enjoying lunch on the dock, we saw our friendly red-tailed hawk wing past with what looked like a length of rope dangling from its talons.

The snake, made lazy and careless in victory, had become the victim. Another of nature’s battles had been won and lost.

Island Kingdom

It is a beautiful sunny day. Wispy clouds drift lazily across the blue. My wife snoozes in the lounger with an open book on her lap. The children play on the swim raft moored in the bay, pushing each other off in some form of “king of the castle.” The giggling and laughter is a beautiful sound. King of the raft they may be, but I am the monarch of this island, methinks, as I stand surveying my kingdom.

Often when we think of an earthly paradise, it is an island that is imagined. True, it is mostly a tropical destination, with white sand beaches, blue ocean, and swaying palms, but also it seems to be the self-containment that the island promises that is an important part of the fantasy.

My cottage is on an island. It is far from tropical; in fact, it can be quite chilly some days, even in summer. There is no sandy beach, no salty ocean air or turquoise water, no palms, sea birds, or tropical fish. The island is a balsam-scented, three-acre mound of rock, cedar, and pine situated in the middle of a lake in the northern woods. It is the island from a Tom Thomson painting. The conifers are bent in the wind and gnarled with age.

On the island, in a setting of white birch and mountain ash, is a rambling log cabin with a loft and ladder, polished wood furniture, a wood-burning fireplace, covered porch, and cedar privy. Muskoka chairs are on the dock at the end of a short, well-worn path. There is no electricity, telephone, or running water. A propane oven or little wood stove is where we do our cooking, and oil lamps help light the cabin at night. It is a relaxing place, and a fun and safe place for the family. The children and our dogs can run around and we do not worry. The island provides a combination of freedom and security.

King of the castle — giggling and laughter are beautiful sounds.

The island might lack the tropical flavour or even the fearsome cliffs or craggy mountains that fix some islands in one’s memory. Here, at the cottage, the beauty is more modest than spectacular. It is beautiful, though, surrounded by inviting water and a sweeping panorama of inlets, islands, and peninsulas.

True, cottaging on a remote island can provide certain obstacles. One cannot so readily hop in the car and head to town for milk and bread. It is a little bit more of a logistical dilemma when everything has to be brought by boat — the provisions for a week’s stay, the hundred-pound propane cylinders needed for cooking and refrigeration, or the lumber for a cottage project. The marvellous sense of isolation is peculiar to islands, and it is this isolation that both limits distractions and demands self-sufficiency.

I have always thought of myself as an island person. My wife and family would say that I am frugal. I am self-sufficient, comfortable with solitude, an avid reader, and greedy for small pleasures. Since this is an island that has been in the family since my childhood, the cottage also encourages a powerful nostalgia in me.

It was on the island that I learned to fish and canoe, water-ski, chop wood — it was here that I grew to manhood. I cut a deep, jagged gash in my left pointer finger when the crosscut saw I was using slipped out of the log. I hid by the water on a rock ledge surrounded by cedars, not wanting to admit my careless mistake — holding a blood-soaked cloth over a wound that needed stitches. Unembarrassed now, I show the scar to my children.

Yes, back then I was just a kid, a mere serf in this domain. Now I am royalty!

The children are at the shore now, climbing out on swim rock, asking what is for lunch. My wife is awake, giving me orders to put the barbecue on for hot dogs.

“Can you take us out water-skiing after lunch?” the kids ask.

“You said you’d take me fishing,” my son reminds me.

“And you were going to fix the dock this afternoon,” suggests my wife.

“Yes, my liege,” says the man who would be king.

Puppy Love

I recently introduced a new family pet to life at the cottage. Boomer is a year-old husky, playful, athletic, good-looking, and a little thick. Technically he is no longer a puppy, though he certainly does act like one.

It was love at first sight for him as far as the cottage goes. And why not? Cottage life is a perfect fit for most dogs. Upon arrival on the three-acre island he is in constant motion. There are so many new sights, smells, and places to explore. As we unpack and get things organized, Boomer and Timba run this way and that. They are just two medium-sized huskies, but sound like a whole herd of elephants as they thunder past.

With my chores complete, I sit down in the rocker on the front porch and open an ice-cold beverage. I’m asked to light the barbecue, so I set down the beer for just a second and step off the porch. When I turn back I see that the darling pup has pierced the tin with his incisors and is lapping up the spraying liquid. I let out a piercing scream, causing Boomer to dart off into the trees with the can of Kilkenny still clenched in his teeth. It’s my own fault. Why would I leave an almost full tin of cold, crisp ale unguarded? Who could blame the parched canine, overheated from all the running, for satisfying his thirst.

After dinner I take the kids for a quick ski. Boomer worries greatly about this ritual, people being dragged around the water on a rope, kind of like backwards dog sledding. He paces and whines, and smooches with the children when they return safely to the dock. At one point he leans out too far and tumbles into the lake. He panics and swims under the dock and gets stuck there looking like a drowned rat. I have to get in the water and rescue him.

We take an evening paddle around the island. Boomer follows us on land, dashing around the trail, alighting on different rocky viewpoints on the shore. When we pass that point, he darts back into the bush and reappears at the next rocky precipice. When we return to the dock, he comes bounding down, slips and slides off and into the water. He tries to swim underneath the stringers and gets stuck. I look at Timba and we both shake our heads.

I had a restless sleep in the boathouse bunkie that night, as I tossed and turned and dreamt about being on an African safari with elephants, lions, and hyenas circling my tent. The night is filled with all kinds of weird African noises. In a sleepy, half-dazed, early-morning state I stumble to the cabin to put on some coffee, and almost immediately fall into a huge crater that was dug in the middle of the trail. I yell for help, but neither human nor dog responds, so I scramble out of the hole myself. It appears that the dog had been trying to dig up some kind of rodent, perhaps a vole.

She would welcome the kids back to land — swimming and skiing, were to her, supreme acts of folly.

Awake now, I look at the scene before me, horrified. It looks like a war zone, even worse than the kids’ bedrooms at home. Somehow Boomer has opened the door to the utility shed and dragged everything out — tools, nails, gas cans, boat oil, pieces of lumber, paintbrushes, tarps, and rope. Every knick-knack necessary for cottage survival is spread about. He has even pulled out the chainsaw and appears to have tried to start it.

I then find all the cooking utensils that usually hang neatly on the barbecue, scattered about like there has been some wild doggy party. The metal tongs and spatula are dinted and dimpled with teeth marks. The handle of the cleaning brush has been eaten off.

I find bits of clothing that had been left outside. Some of it is still recognizable. The dog grabbed my oldest daughter’s bikini bottoms, although I would have thought he would rather sink his teeth into something a little more substantial, and chewed them even smaller, thong size. My comfortable sneakers have been transformed into thongs of a different sort. A bottle of sun block has been squeezed empty, spread over the cottage wall. I’m not sure, but it looks as if he was spelling his name.

I find Boomer sleeping on the deck, with an air of innocence. The truth being, he had nothing left to chew. Timba sits beside him looking mortified. When I throw her a questioning look, she shakes her head and lifts a paw, pointing it at the snoozing pup.

“Boomer!” I yell angrily. He bounds to his feet with tail wagging wildly, jumps up on me and starts licking my face. He seems to be telling me, “I love this place!”

Lost in Translation

Grandma and six-year-old Jenna saw the one-legged duck coming out of the bay. It hopped quite ably up onto the shore and grazed in the long grass that fringed the water. It had learned to lean over to the right, to balance itself and compensate for the loss of the left leg.

How it lost its appendage, we do not know. The children would later guess at a snapping turtle, a pike, or perhaps a crazed boater. Maybe it was a dog. The duck might have lost it as a duckling. He might have been born with only one leg. We can only guess. The reality was that the whole leg was missing, but he had learned to cope. Not just to cope, but to manoeuvre himself around on the grass with a dexterity that was very impressive.

Grandma had not seen this duck before, so she sent Jenna scurrying up to the cottage to fetch Grandpa, to tell him to come down and see.

“Is Grandpa coming?” asked Grandma, when the youngster returned.

“No, he’s already seen it,” answered Jenna, sitting herself back down.

“Really? He never told me,” said Grandma, a little miffed.

There’s a certain simplicity to life at the cottage.

“He said he saw it yesterday, he saw the leg fall off in the water.”

Jenna was quite matter-of-fact about what Grandpa had seen. Grandma was a little harder to convince. “What? Grandpa said that? He saw the duck’s leg fall off?” Jenna smiled and nodded; Grandma looked up towards the cottage in disbelief.

“He said he saw the leg fall right off when the water was high — he knows where he can find it,” stated young Jenna. Grandma envisioned herself packing the thin duck leg in a bag of ice and rushing off with the leg and bird to the nearest hospital to have it sewn back on.

Completely ambivalent that he was at the centre of what might become a domestic dispute, the one-legged duck hopped gamely back down into the water and floated gracefully away, through the reeds and out of sight.

Grandpa came down with a tray, some sandwiches, and drinks. Now, he has been married to Grandma for fifty years and can easily recognize the signs of danger. He was in trouble, but he had no idea why. So he did what brave men everywhere do when faced with the wrath of their spouses: he pleaded innocence even before being accused.

“What? I didn’t do anything,” he said — hands out to his sides, palms upward.

“You never told me you saw a one-legged duck,” chastised Grandma. Grandpa looked around the shore and out in the bay. “Well, he’s gone now! And why did you tell Jenna you saw its leg drop off?”

“I said no such thing,” harrumphed Grandpa.

“You said that, Grandpa,” accused the innocent young girl, sidling up to Grandma, knowing at a young age that women should stick together. “You said you saw the leg fall right off the duck.”

Grandpa stood open-mouthed, speechless. He looked at Jenna, and then at Grandma — both had their arms crossed and were glaring at him. Then he thought of something, and he smiled; all was becoming clear. This was all about a six-year-old’s pronunciation, and the hearing of a grandparent.

“The dock — I saw the pin drop out of the dock.” The ramp from shore to their floating dock sat at a peculiar angle. The water level had risen the day before, lifting the dock and causing the pin to fall off into the shallow waters. “I thought Jenna was telling me about the dock — I saw the leg fall off the dock.”

Grandpa has yet to see the amazing one-legged duck … the little troublemaker.

The Handyman

I’m not a handyman. I admit it. Even my kids recognize this. When a cottage project comes along that requires a little more of a craftsman’s touch, they say, “Better get Grandpa.” When I tell them that I think I can do this, they say, “Dad, stick to building fences and docks.” My wife, bless her heart, has a certain confidence in my carpentry skills. Either that, or she loves to see me make a fool of myself.

I know this, because whenever a new issue of the magazine Cottage Life arrives, I have to try to be the one to retrieve the mail. This way I can flip through the magazine and tear out any puttering, inventive, handyman projects that might catch her fancy. She’ll say, “We seem to be missing pages 94 to 102.”

To which I’ll shake my head and respond, “You really don’t know how magazines work, do you? They always keep a few pages in reserve in case a late, great story is submitted.”

Unfortunately, there are those times when I have to work and cannot hang around the mailbox all day. I get home and there she will be, leafing through the pages of the latest issue. “Oh,” she says, “you should come and see this. Think we [meaning you] can build it?”

So I try to build a bar trolley to wheel down to the dock. The wheels fall off on its first mission, and we lose half of our cocktail supply. Who knew you couldn’t just nail the wheels on? Then I build the fancy, floating dumb waiter to get drinks and lunch out to the swim raft. It sinks.

In the latest “Special Anniversary” August 2007 issue, there is a six-and-a-half-page spread, complete with photography and illustrations, describing the building of a two-seater wooden Muskoka loveseat that doubles, mysteriously, as a canoe rack. Not only a canoe rack, but also a canoe lift — it helps you hoist your canoe out of the water. I notice that my wife has dog-eared the page. What a dumb idea. Whatever happened to the days when you would canoe to the dock, reach down, grab the gunnel, hoist the canoe over your head, and carry it to the canoe rack on shore?

“We [meaning you] should build one of these.” She sees it as a romantic loveseat — that it is also a canoe hoist is of no consequence.

“But you could only sit in the chair if I was out paddling the canoe,” I whine.

“Exactly!”

I imagine myself paddling the canoe around the island, around the bay, pleading with her to let me dock for lunch. “Just a few more minutes,” she will say, “I just want to finish this chapter.”

Worse, I envision her sitting and flirting in the loveseat with Hunk Hankinson, the real handyman on the lake, who lives in the fancy, overbuilt, over-organized cottage on shore. I would be out paddling, and paddling some more, waiting for permission from my controller to begin my approach and land. Meanwhile, he would be pointing out all the flaws in my creation, telling her how he would have done it better, and they would both be giggling. I might be allowed brief docking privileges if their drinks were to run dry.

All this for a silly loveseat that transforms itself into a canoe hoist and rack. I see myself sidling up to the dock in my canoe, hopping out, tying off, going around and flipping the hinged seat over and into the canoe, and then going back to the canoe to line it up with the overturned seat and to attach the chair armrests to the canoe thwarts. Then, getting back on the dock, I would untie the canoe from the dock cleats, before going around and pulling on the hoisting ropes to flip both the chair and canoe over and onto the dock. The half-hour process complete, my wife would wander down with her book and a sandwich and say, “Hey, I was just about to sit in that chair!”

The Cottage Duel

Okay, it’s not really the same as pistols at fifty paces, a good old medieval joust, or a bare-knuckled boxing match in the school playground, but, at the cottage, it is a fair means of settling disputes. Insults have been cast, a challenge is made and accepted, and the duel begins. The combat sometimes lasts for only a few brief seconds. Other battles can take fifteen minutes or more. The winner stays dry. The loser suffers an embarrassing dunking in the lake.

We call it gunnel bobbing, a canoe-based balancing act akin to lumberjack log rolling. The two combatants paddle out into the bay, one climbs up on the stern, the other on the bow, both face each other with feet firmly planted on the canoe gunnels. The idea is to shake and bob and wobble the canoe around to throw your opponent off balance. When you see you’re getting the upper hand, you go for the kill — a couple of hard shakes has them tumbling into the surf.

For us, gunnel bobbing had become a somewhat forgotten sport. Canoes were used for more practical purposes, like paddling around on a quiet evening or heading out on a multi-day trip. We were going through an old box of snapshots, which we had discovered stored away at the back of a cupboard at the cottage, when we came across some goofy photos of us as kids, gunnel bobbing out in the little bay on my brother’s cedar strip canoe. After commenting on the horrendous styles of our circa 1979 bathing trunks and bikinis, our kids were excited to have discovered another way to have fun at the cabin. A tournament was arranged: it would be sister against sister, sister against brother, and cousin against cousin. The “All World Cottage Gunnel Bobbing Championship” was at stake.

My past experience made me resident expert, coach, trainer, and judge. When coaching new combatants, I always stress the point that it is unwise to try to hang on when a dunking is inevitable. Refusing to face certain defeat usually just means that you tumble into the canoe instead of into the refreshing water. That can hurt — so, when you are losing your balance, the best strategy is to jump clear into the lake.

It is a lesson that stubborn boys, in particular, are slow to learn. This is especially so when they are paired with their obnoxious sisters: they must win at all costs. So it is with my son’s first competition. He does what I warned against and topples into the canoe upon losing his balance — one leg in the boat and one in the lake, his tender acorns cracking on the canoe gunnel. Boys, of course, hate to smack their nether-regions, while at the same time they get a kind of perverse giggly pleasure out of falling in such an uncomfortable manner. All onlookers of the male variety groan and grimace and hunch over in discomfort when bearing witness to such a tragedy. With his pale face contorted in instant agony, my son teeters slow-motion overboard and into the lake. The cool water obviously plays a hand in hurrying his recovery.

In the end, one of the male cousins is crowned champion. With this knowledge, I unwittingly extol the virtues of the male athlete as superior to that of the fairer sex. I, too, I point out, was a hero in my day. Having heard enough, my wife challenges me to a duel.