by James Ross
At this point, I ran out screaming like a banshee. He went into the higher branches and chittered excitedly. My family laughed along. I brought out the chainsaw, but was warned off by my spouse.
“Just a little trimming, I could sculpt it like a Japanese bonsai tree.” That would leave the beautiful mountain ash with just one spindly branch to hold the feeder.
At the sight of the saw, Chirpy ran out with full cheeks into the nearby forest. I followed; I had an idea. I took a small bag of birdseed and set it out for him under a sweeping pine. That ought to keep him happy for a while, I thought. I came back to the cottage porch announcing haughtily that the problem was solved. No sooner had I gotten the words out of my mouth than the kids giggled and pointed to Chirpy, up in the feeder.
I threw a stick of firewood, striking the feeder and sending it crashing earthward. The glass globe shattered, the copper metal roof was bent and mangled, and the squirrel sat in the midst of the destruction stuffing seeds into the pockets of his woolly coat before prancing away into the forest.
I picked up the feeder and walked slowly, purposely into the shed, knowing that all the while my family’s smiles were following me. I straightened the copper roof, gently removed all shards of glass, and then filled the lower feed bowl with seed. I grabbed a brush and some black paint and wrote on the feeder with a flourish. Then I returned it to the tree.
“Open, Chirpy’s Diner.”
Hunting for Hidden Treasure
It is Indiana Jones without the danger, The Da Vinci Code without the Vatican, or Treasure Island without Long John Silver. It is a touch of mystery, some problem solving, and some adventure. Mostly, its just a test of the imagination and something that can be done at the cottage, but not at home.
At our cottage it’s lately become a tradition, not yet passed through the generations, but perhaps that will come. I am not sure why, or even exactly when it started. Like most cottage traditions it has simply evolved. For six or seven years now, when the cousins are all gathered at the cottage together, we set aside a summer’s day for what the youngsters fondly call the “Treasure Hunt.”
Clues lead on to clues, riddles are solved, word scrambles untangled, and anagrams deciphered. At the end of the day, the children have solved all the puzzles and find a cryptic map that leads to buried treasure. Like movie sequels, we try to make each year a little better, different, and certainly more outrageous than the previous.
The treasure itself usually is a wooden chest that contains things like little toys, water games, a new ski rope, and treats, though the booty at the end has become not nearly as important to the kids as the hunt. Even the younger children will say that the journey is more fun than the final destination, and they are sad when it is over. They say, “Dad, can you make the clues harder next time?”
Answering the call of the dinner gong.
I spend the better part of a day writing out clues in the form of quatrains or rhyming couplets. To find a clue pinned under the dock, a riddle might state: “Out over the water with a crib for my bed, look underneath and a clue can be read.” And there the children find a new puzzle: “Never in one place but usually following you around, grab leather to hold me, a clue here is found.” The children chase a confused dog around to find a clue taped to its collar. You get the idea — bad poetry, but lots of fun.
In the morning, with the children still sleeping, the adults hide all the clues. In the afternoon, with our work done, we relax and watch the children wander from the forest to the cabin, from the swim rock to the dock, from the boathouse to the outhouse.
The seven cousins range in age from six to seventeen, so we allow different level clues for each. The ones designated for the youngest are a little simpler. The oldest is hit with clues that would challenge Indiana Jones. Off the kids go in a single line, meandering around the island from clue to clue. They solve the riddles, codes, and puzzles, each solution moving them closer to the ultimate prize.
Though the hunt started out strictly as a dry land exercise, it has now evolved into an anything goes affair. Often the children must don their masks and snorkels to scour the lake bottom. Bricks with letters on them are brought to the surface, then organized into words that lead the group onward. A riddle directs them to the canoes for a paddle to nearby Sawdust Island. Another clue gets them swimming out to the anchored raft, where a map is found in a bottle floating past. The pirate map has them counting paces from forked trees or rock piles, following the shadow from an old pine at sixteen hundred hours to the place where X marks the spot.
If there is any negative aspect of the hunt, it comes in the mental anguish I suffer as a result of the fifty or more clues I am forced to pen. The poetry tends to infest my brain — so I go around for days after, talking in rhymes. Like the best Shakespearean dandy, I approach my wife with a romantic ditty: “Hello, my good wife, can you please be a dear; Go up to the cottage and fetch me a beer.” Her retort is a little less lyrical, and certainly does not rhyme one bit, but it does serve to break the “Treasure Hunt” spell.
In a Fog
The fog itself was not really a problem. It became an issue only because it rolled in, thick and impenetrable, on the night of the lake’s annual progressive dinner. A progressive dinner is a multi-course affair, one that you begin with appetizers and cocktails at one cottage before you motor on to the next cottage for salads. Still on schedule, you depart en masse to a third cottage for the main course, with wine. With the schedule becoming increasingly harder to maintain, and the talking becoming progressively louder, it is off to a fourth cottage for dessert, special coffees, and after-dinner aperitifs.
You get the idea: a designated boat driver is a necessity. This had been factored in; the fog had not. Nor had the bevy of inebriated back-seat boat drivers who knew the lake like the back of their collective hands.
The evening began at the stroke of five, with cocktails and hors d’oeuvres at the Stewarts’. Everyone was polite and in high fashion, as Bert swung through with a drink tray and Martha explained each one of her delectable creations. At six o’clock exactly, the loquacious group leader, Idele Chatter, clapped her hands and urged everyone to finish up, it was time to be off to the Rommanes’ for salad. The first tentacles of mist came creeping in from the north arm.
At 7:00 p.m. sharp, the boats meandered down to the east end of the lake, where the Sanderses had prepared Chicken Cordon Bleu. The fog had blotted out all traces of the north shore, and, when the group set off merrily at 8:30 for Crocker’s Island and dessert, there was general joking and laughing about the limited visibility. Norm and Betty met the group at the dock with a lantern, even though darkness would not descend on the lake for another hour.
By 10:00 it was dark, and the fog was as thick as the proverbial pea soup. It was hard to see your own running lights. The boats left in a haphazard fashion, heading for the final destination, the party at the Cookes’. Joan Cooke had borrowed a number of records from the several ports of call, and had the LPs stacked on her knees as she headed out around Crane Island in the Crockers’ boat. Betty was navigating for Norm, who could barely see the glow of the burning tobacco in his own pipe. “This way, more to the left, hold the course, veer right … hurry up, Norm, or we will miss the dancing.”
Old Norm ran his powerful runabout right up onto the middle of Sawdust Island, took his pipe out of his mouth, tapped it over the side, and said not a word. The stack of records flew in all directions, fluttering down into the lake. Betty landed on her rump in the back of the boat, her stockinged legs sticking straight in the air.
I want to learn how to fly.
Betty and Joan screamed for help, but nobody seemed to hear. Some had found their way to the party, others zigzagged around the lake, lost in the fog. Joan recalled hearing the Chatters’ boat idling past this way and that. Mitch was lying on the back seat with a bottle clasped lovingly in his hands, singing “Row, row, row your boat,” something that was heard, along with Idele’s wagging tongue
, coming and going.
Her tale finished, Ms. Cooke set down her teacup. I helped her up out of her Muskoka chair on the dock and into the boat for the journey back to her mainland cabin.
My kids had found some old long-playing records while snorkelling around little Sawdust Island, an uninhabited spit of rock off our island’s west point. They had no clue what they were. Some of the vinyl was in bits. Those still intact were worn thin like paper Frisbees, their jackets long since disintegrated in the water. I knew what they were, but not how they got there. I did know who to ask. Joan Cooke was one of those wise old-timers on the lake who make it their business to know everything.
“I remember the fog,” Joan said as she left. “Remember that night well, 1957 … wonder we weren’t all killed. Lake folk were a lot more fun in those days.”
Nature’s Stage
“All the world’s a stage,” and here, in cottage country, we are blessed to share that stage with nature.
It was rather a strange sight. My wife and I were driving near our home a few years back when we caught sight of two coyotes circling in a roadside meadow. Their heads were low, backs arched, and tails straight out like flags. There was something in the field they were stalking. We pulled over to watch. Suddenly, as the coyotes closed in, their quarry spread its wings wide in a ferocious display of size. We recognized the hunted as a red-tailed hawk, injured and grounded. The canines had the intention of making this predator their prey.
Now, I’m usually one to let nature run its own course, but my wife felt badly about this mismatch and ordered me to go to the bird’s aid. I grabbed my camera as an assault weapon and into the breach I ran, hollering like a lunatic. The terrified coyotes ran for cover. The red-tailed hawk, rather than being thankful, found a new target for his anxiety. He fluttered his massive wings and bounced towards me. To show that my intentions were more honourable than those of the previous antagonists, I knelt down and spoke quietly to the frightened bird. While my wife drove quickly home to get a blanket and to make a couple of phone calls, I took some wonderful photos. I had never been so close to such a magnificent hawk. The red-tail gradually calmed, his outstretched wings slowly closed.
Knowing that if we left the hawk there it would not survive, we carefully captured him in a heavy blanket and drove to a nearby veterinarian for advice. We were told that the hawk had damaged wing feathers that would heal in time. If we could keep him safe for about a month, the hawk should fully recover. We took the red-tail home and housed him in a spare chain-link dog kennel, six by ten feet, and eight feet high. The enclosure was open at the top, so when the hawk was well enough, he had the freedom to leave. We caught mice in a trap to feed our patient. The bird would never eat while we watched, but he must have been thankful, because the mice always disappeared.
After two weeks the hawk got braver and more mobile. He would screech at us when hungry, and moved off his perch and around the enclosure. After just three weeks of rehab, the beautiful bird disappeared. Healthy again, the red-tailed hawk took to the skies.
I must admit, we were quite pleased with ourselves. We had stepped in to help this beautiful bird, and were successful in our cause. I wondered whether, in some heartwarming Disney-esque way, the red-tailed hawk had formed a special bond with us, his protectors. Maybe, someday, when I was in trouble, our friend the hawk would fly in to save me.
Apparently not.… As I worked outside the next day I heard a terrified cacophony of clucking and confusion coming from our chicken coop. (Yes, we used to raise a few chickens.) I ran to the rescue, just in time to see our hawk flying off with a young chicken clutched lovingly in his talons. Who could blame the bird? As the hawk had pecked fussily at our trap-killed mice, across the way he had watched, day after day, our nice, plump chickens strutting about in their coop. He must have thought us very poor hosts indeed.
In most places it is solely a human drama that plays out in people’s lives, on the streets around them and on the nightly news. As cottagers and those living in cottage country, we are blessed with a region where we often see moose, black bears, foxes, deer, groundhogs, rabbits, beavers, loons, herons, ducks, and various other splendid creatures. These birds and animals are the players who take a leading role on our stage, and the production is grand.
Autumn Colours
Back to School
Summer is over. Well, not officially, but the children are back to school. When I was a youngster, summers seemed to last forever. Now they disappear in the blink of an eye. It’s not just me, either — everyone I talk to complains that they do not know where the summer has gone.
The kids are excited about seeing their friends, even though the desire to be back in the classroom is not something that they would openly admit to. I am a little sad. I know that having the children board the school bus every morning will leave me with more quiet time to work. I also know that the lake is beautiful in autumn, and we will escape to the cottage at every weekend opportunity. Still, those fun family times at the cottage this year are drawing to a close. It seems like only yesterday that we were opening up the place.
Perhaps summers seem to go by more quickly because we are busier now. We juggle our cottage time with soccer schedules, hockey camps, dance competitions, family obligations, and, well, work. We fill up our calendar. Then we fill up our cottage days with a list of projects that we need to get done. In the end it becomes a race against the clock, and we watch the end of summer closing in on us with shocking speed.
As youngsters, we would wake up mid-morning in the boathouse bunkie, grab a little breakfast, and then look at each other and say, “So, what should we do today?” We had no schedule, no to-do list, no day-timer with pages filled. We enjoyed each day to its fullest, and approached each day with no expectations. The days seemed long, and I can only imagine how long they would have seemed if we had gotten out of bed at a decent hour.
To return to those endless summers of our youth, perhaps we need only to act like children again.
Our children are the same. They run around the forest for an hour playing some adventure game. They huddle and ask the question, “What do you want to do now?” They go for a swim, go water-skiing or canoeing. They find enough level ground for a baseball match. They participate in some form of Cottage Olympics. Their days are filled with activity from the time they crawl out of bed in the morning until the late hour when they play a board game at the kitchen table or tell a ghost story at the bonfire.
A theory begins to form in my mind. To get back to those seemingly endless summers we enjoyed as youngsters, perhaps we need only act like children again! To test this thesis, I decide to join in on the Cottage Olympics. My children, their cousins, and their friends are participating in a triathlon today, running the trail that follows the shoreline, swimming out to and back from the swim raft, and finally kayaking around the island. The children are all a-twitter at the prospect of their dad simply surviving, but I am an athlete from way back. The early run goes well, and I imagine myself breaking all cottage records. Then my legs start getting a little heavy, and I stumble over the last few rocks and roots.
I peel off my runners and dive into the lake, doing what I fancy is a beautiful front crawl — that is, until my weighty legs begin to sink. The front crawl becomes a breast stroke, then a side stroke, and then, as it gets close to becoming just a stroke, I manage the last few metres with a dog paddle. The children steady the kayak for the last leg of the race, and, as I jump nimbly into the craft, I perform half of an Eskimo roll that I simply assumed was part of the event. I empty the kayak and then start the paddle around the island. I will later contend that the wind picked up against me, and this is why my time is slightly behind my six-year-old’s.
For the next two days I struggle around the cottage with aching lungs, sore limbs, and tender muscles. These painful days seem longer somehow, so I know that my endless summer theory is correct. Still, when they try to convince me to join in on the decathlon, I politely decline. U
nfair, I say, that an athlete of my advanced ability should be involved. Instead, I settle in with a beer and the stopwatch as official timer. Summers that seem to last forever are best left to the experts.
I’m a Lumberjack
There are a couple of activities at the cottage that always draw spectators. One is backing the boat and trailer down the boat ramp into the lake. Men appear out of the forest from nowhere to watch. As you drive slowly up to the public boat launch there seems to be nobody around. This pleases you greatly, as it makes the whole process much easier. You are an expert when unwatched, and can swing the truck around with a flourish, throw it into reverse, and back truck and trailer straight as an arrow down the narrow ramp.
So you slink up to the launch and spin the vehicle and trailer around, all the while watching for onlookers. Your wife offers to jump out to help guide you back. You acquiesce, because it is easier, though you know that she will stand in a blind spot and become yet another obstruction for your driving. If she does suddenly and frighteningly appear within the view of your truck mirrors, she will be making such contorted signals that you will really have no clue as to what she is trying to convey. Still, you let her help out from the outside, because it is better than having her try to help from the inside. Inside she will give directions and lean forward to look out of your review mirrors herself, so that when you throw a glance to the passenger side mirror, you see only the back of her lovely new hairdo.
