Cottage Daze

by James Ross

  Just as you throw the truck into reverse to begin the simple procedure, you look around and are startled by the gathering throng of men. They appear from everywhere — some have tools still in hand, some carry a fishing rod or lug along a stack of wood in their arms. Some walk in hip waders, others drive four-wheelers. The crowd comes out of the woodwork, like an old episode from The Twilight Zone where the mob gathers to stare at a traffic accident.

  The staring assemblage has a certain effect on your ability to drive. It is like the first tee on a golf course, when you lead off with what will be your worst drive of the day, shanking the ball almost directly right before listening to the mock applause of the beer-toting spectators lounging on the clubhouse deck.

  Normally you are quite adept at backing up trailers. Now, watched, you zigzag down the ramp, fishtail your trailer, jackknife, and pull forward and back, all the while watching your wife’s handy gesticulations. The gathering of men greet your attempt with either a silent nod (meaning thumbs-up) or a grimace and a slow shake of the head (meaning thumbs-down). Then the crowd vanishes back into the trees. It is like they were never really there.

  My brother-in-law works for the coast guard out of Vancouver. Their main facility on the Pacific sits next to a very public boat launch. When each yacht, sailboat, and motorboat arrives to be backed down the ramp, these government workers gather to hold up scorecards, like the honest judges in a figure skating competition. When a rich captain jackknifes his million-dollar yacht, he is able to stare out at scores ranging from 1 to 3, and see his tax dollars at work.

  The other cottage activity sure to gather a crowd of skillful onlookers is the felling of a tree. Like the athlete competing in the big game, the pressure is on. They watch you set the notch, check the wind, judge the lean and the warp of the trunk, and then cut the hinge, all the while nodding their heads in agreement or shaking their heads in quiet disbelief. All the watchers are, of course, experts.

  The best lumberjack can drop the tree on a dime. I’m not bad with a saw; I can carve up wood to build a log table for the dock or a big log frame for a bed in the A-frame tent. In backcountry camps I have sculptured a hewn log easy chair with a chainsaw and axe. I can usually drop a tree approximately where I want it. Sometimes when I have people watching, I try to hurry the process to impress the spectators. That is usually a bad idea.

  Usually I’m quite accurate with my tree felling. At other times, my dad is watching. Even as we get on in years, we always want to please our dads, make them proud of what we’ve learned in life. Usually wanting to show him my expertise with a chainsaw only leads to him having to scramble out of the way of a tree that has inexplicably tumbled backwards, the opposite direction from what was intended, the tree only slightly missing his scurrying backside.

  Such is life. We hit the hole in one while golfing solo. We score our hat trick or hit that grand slam when our parents miss one of our games. When we want so badly to please them we almost drop a heavy maple tree on their heads. They love us anyway.

  Inspector Gadget

  Let me be totally honest, I am not very fond of heights. That is why stepping off a mountain at four thousand metres with nothing but nylon webbing separating one from certain death would seem a strange thing for me to be doing. Still, there I was, paragliding over the Aeswritch Glacier and getting a bird’s-eye view of the Alps and the neat, orderly nature of the Swiss landscape.

  I suppose I deserved this. My wife and I had become friends with a Swiss couple, Alain and Nicole, who live just outside Zurich. They had joined me on a dog sled expedition some twelve years earlier. I had taken them out into Canada’s wintery wilds and forced them to brave frigid temperatures that dropped into the minus-forties. I gave them their own sled and sent them careening down a mountain trail pulled by a team of excited huskies.

  Next up was a summer visit when I guided them around British Columbia’s Bowron Lakes canoe route. I forced these novice canoeists to tackle some whitewater, high winds, nasty whitecaps, and pelting rain on a week’s canoe excursion. In the evening I threw in a grumpy grizzly, a mother moose, and some of my camp cooking, not knowing which was the most dangerous.

  So now they have encouraged us to visit them, and have finally found payback. There I was, facing my fears, spinning like a kite in space, ten thousand feet above the ground. The day before, my wife and I had been to the top of the Matterhorn, in a manner of speaking. Aboard a helicopter, we drifted close enough to the summit to see the ropes that dangle down the south face and the climbers’ hut, used as a resting place before adventurers set off for the summit. The helicopter had taken us climbing vertically up the rock wall, breaking over the crest before plummeting down the other side in a stomach-churning joyride, making me long for solid ground under my feet.

  That was last spring. In the fall, our Swiss friends came to our cottage for the first time. They experienced a Canadian Thanksgiving there, and enjoyed the vibrant autumn colours of Muskoka. They were amazed. I had threatened them with bungee jumping, hot air ballooning, or a barrel ride over Niagara Falls. In the end, I decided to call a truce and give them the relaxing peace and quiet of cottage country.

  We did get a little active. We enjoyed a dinner cruise on Lake Muskoka aboard the Segwun. We did some canoeing and a little hiking in Algonquin Park. The most dangerous thing we did on this visit was to jump into the chilly lake waters on an October afternoon; more dangerous for me, because Alain favours those European-style swimsuits.

  Whatever adventure we set out on, our Swiss friends showed up looking like they had just been in a photo shoot for National Geographic. Off on our hike on a drizzly day, I had an old, tattered oilskin slicker on. It went well with my green rubber rain pants that are too short, ending somewhere just below my knee, making me look like Li’l Abner. Alain was smartly attired in a breathable Jack Wolfskin GORE-TEX jacket and pants, with matching gloves and state-of-the-art, battery-operated hiking boots.

  I am not a techy kind of guy. My kids are always disgusted with me as I try to figure out how to use my cellphone. Alain, on the other hand, loves technology and has every modern gadget known to man. The watch on his wrist was right out of the world of James Bond. It checked his heart rate, chimed when he needed to hydrate, and let him know what time it would be if he were hiking in Switzerland or in China, as opposed to Muskoka.

  He had a Swiss Army knife on his belt with enough tools and implements for it to fully replace everything in your cottage work shed. His BlackBerry doesn’t work at our cottage, which unsettled him, but his GPS was in fine form, and allowed him to find his way to and from the privy and around the shoreline of our three-acre island. He carried it in his hand throughout the day’s hike, and stared at it as much as at the beautiful scenery.

  We climbed up to a rock precipice that provides a splendid view over the lake and valley. “How high up do you think we are?” asked my wife.

  “Oh, I’d say somewhere between three and four hundred metres,” I responded.

  “Actually we are at three hundred twenty-seven,” pointed out my resourceful friend, looking at the little gadget in his hand. “Perhaps we should enjoy a little rest. My watch tells me my heart rate is a little high after that climb. So does your heavy breathing,” he added, smiling.

  Of course I made due fun of him for his dependence on technology. I snickered and rolled my eyes, drawing the ire of my most tolerant spouse. I sat down on a jagged rock and pulled out a bottle of water and an energy bar. Alain slipped off his day pack, unlashed a metal tube from the side, and from it flipped open a number of lightweight, comfortable cushioned stools. His small pack transformed itself into an elaborate picnic basket, complete with a bottle of red wine, glasses, an assortment of fanciful cheeses, and French bread. The ladies sidled up to him.

  I borrowed his Swiss Army knife — for the corkscrew, of course. After all, some gadgets are simply invaluable.

  Splitting Wood

  I sit on the front porch and sharpen the
axe with a stone and the chainsaw with a file. Fall is the best time for bucking up logs and splitting wood. The air is fresh and cool, the ground is clean and blanketed with a crunchy carpet of colourful leaves, and there are no blackflies or mosquitoes pestering you as you work. The frustration that is born from getting nipped behind the ears by small flies that buzz around your head while you are holding an axe in your hand can be a very dangerous thing.

  After some time sitting working at the laptop, I love heading out and taking out my frustrations by whacking some maple logs with my splitting maul. I take down a standing dead birch and then buck it up into twelve-inch logs that will fit in the wood-burning stove. We don’t have much hardwood on the island: a little bit of maple, some birch, lots of pine, and some cedar that makes the best kindling.

  I grab the splitting maul and set the logs on the chopping block. I take a quick look to find the sweet spot and to avoid the knots. Feet shoulder width apart, the lower hand at the end of the handle, the upper one starting halfway up and then sliding down easily as the arc of the axe falls. At the precise moment the axe strikes comes a flick of the wrist to halve the log like it was fastened by a spring.

  My energetic wife often offers to help, but I hold up my hand. “This, my dear, is men’s work — are there no dishes to be done or floors to mop?” Now, before any of you skillful female foresters go running for your keyboard to send a letter off to my editor, let me say that I’m kidding, of course. Just trying to outpoint my darling wife in the daily tennis match of barbs. Besides, there seems to be a dwindling number of tasks where a man can feel like a man. Such tasks as felling trees, splitting firewood, backing up boat and trailer, and cooking steaks on the barbecue. The truth is, after I’ve finished making a mess splitting, I welcome my wife’s help picking up and piling the firewood.

  Today, I put in a few hours filling up the woodbox and splitting wood into a huge hill that surrounds my chopping block. “You’d better get cleaned up,” says my wife. “We have company coming for dinner. We can pile the rest of the wood tomorrow.” I think about our invited guests and whack a few more logs.

  I grab a cold beer from the fridge to wash away the sawdust, then head down to the boathouse to fill the washbasin for a quick clean-up. I wipe away the sweat and dirt and then soap and rinse my hair, grab a towel, and sneak out back to swim rock for a quick dip in the refreshing lake. I hear our guests arriving in their boat, so I towel off, put on my cleanest dirty shirt, and make a half-hearted attempt to comb my hair. I wander back up to the cottage to find our island neighbours admiring my dear wife as she stands amongst the recently split logs and hatchets a couple pieces of cedar into kindling.

  “Girl,” says the visiting wife, “you just never stop, do you? I smell supper on the stove, the place looks lickety clean, and here you are chopping wood to keep the place cozy and warm to boot.”

  “Where’s your husband, anyway?” asks her husband. “Off having a nap in the hammock?”

  “Oh, here’s Jamie now,” says my sinister spouse. The invited guests turn my way. They see me with a beer in hand, looking fresh and clean. He admires me with reverence. His wife greets me with a scowl. I can’t help but notice a little smirk on my wife’s face: she has gotten me back for my crack about the dishes and floor. I give her a wink, conceding the point.

  I enjoy getting out on a colourful autumn afternoon to buck and split wood for the fireplace. It is especially rewarding when the smell of burning wood and the sight of wispy smoke hanging above the cottage chimney greets the senses on a cool September morning, or when we are able to relax in front of the cabin fire in the evening with a dram and a good book. We feel a certain sense of cottage comfort — warm, cozy, and satisfied.

  Season’s Change

  As I am writing this, the sun is shining brightly in the late-afternoon sky, making me squint to view the screen of my laptop. I am sitting at the large pine table in the cottage, looking out at the lake. The autumn sun is still powerful enough for the solar panel to keep my computer batteries fully charged, and the freshness of this season inspires me. I have the barbecue on outside and have been entrusted with minding the hamburgers.

  It is nearing the end of September, and I am ruminating about all the things I love in this beautiful season. We are enjoying a fantastic fall on the heels of a superb summer. Autumn is perhaps my favourite time of year, or do I only feel that way because it is here now? The spring and summer bugs — mosquitoes, deer flies, and blackflies — are long gone.

  The colours are spectacular. The leaves of the maple, birch, and aspen gradually turn golden, red, or orange as the nightly temperatures drop. They fall from the trees and leave a beautiful carpet along the walking trails. It feels spongy underneath hiking boots, so footsteps make little sound. The heavy green summer foliage shrinks back and opens up new views and vistas.

  The lake is no longer a pleasant temperature for a swim, but the water holds enough warmth for what we call a refreshing dip. It takes a little longer to work up the courage to take the plunge — I stand on the rock staring down at the water. I make up my mind to dive in and ready myself, and then find some excuse to put it off for a while longer. Finally, the heckling of the kids becomes unbearable, and in I go. Scrambling back out and towelling off, one feels clean, refreshed, and invigorated.

  In the dawn, an eerie mist shrouds the lake, settling in the bays and rocky inlets. Smoke from the chimney hangs still in the chilly morning air. I love to rise early, to paddle around the island and feel the cool mist lick my face, when the day still smells of dawn. Sometimes we sit with our coffees on the dock and watch the mist rising from the water, swirling there in macabre patterns.

  The cool, crisp autumn air seems more conducive for outside work than the hot, humid, oppressive days of summer. I love to buck and split firewood, stacking it in the lean-to shelter. We do the little things to get the cottage ready for winter. We work at renovating the cottage porch, stopping to watch the geese fly by overhead in graceful formation — a portent of approaching snow.

  A love of the water.

  We are not the only ones who are busy: squirrels bustle about, gathering and storing, laying berries and seeds out on old stump-tops to dry in the autumn sun, and tossing cones down from the towering conifers. They chitter noisily at our pesky dog, who has upset their autumn routine.

  The days are shorter now and the nights are cool; the starry sky seems all the more brilliant. I stay up late reading or working under the lantern light, listening to the light snaps and hisses of wood in the stove. The fire dies to coals. I pull the wool sweater over my head and crawl beneath the down quilt where my wife sleeps. There is still a slight smell of kerosene in the air from blowing out the lamp. The autumn silence is profound; only rarely do sounds permeate the night.

  I am reminded that some places do not have a winter, summer, spring, or fall; just sunny days and rainy days, bright days and bleak days, warm days and hot days. As for me, I love the seasons. I love autumn all the more because of summer, and spring because we have endured a winter … but I must go now, the late September sky has suddenly blackened, as smoke billows from the barbecue.

  Three Men on a Dock

  I read somewhere that men, on average, use three thousand words a day. I would imagine that most are smaller words, and many are used more than once. The report had women, comparatively, using twenty thousand words per day (or was that per hour, I can’t quite recall). I have trouble envisioning how they work out these numbers. Does some scientist follow a select group of people around all day, putting a little tick on a paper each time they open their mouths? I find the number a little high, quite frankly … for the men, I mean.

  I have met some talkative sorts, a few men on steady transmit, but my experience is that a good many live by the same adage as I do: “Why use up any of your daily word quota if a simple grunt will do?” We are able to sit in a group through the full three periods of a local hockey game and not utter one syllable, other than
to interrupt the chatter of our wives, from time to time, to inform them that their son or daughter has just scored. We never even come close to using up the purchased minutes of our cellphone account, even though the number of times the phone is used can be high. In fact, I’m sure if some outsider tapped into our phone conversations, it would be quite painful.

  Three guys had gotten together to remove some trees that leaned dangerously over the rooftop of a riverfront cottage. Three arms of a stout maple tree listed badly over the home’s Muskoka room, looking like a strong breeze would send them crashing through the roof. The owners of the quaint cottage were worried. They also happened to be away at the time.

  The expert at tree-felling, aptly nicknamed Woody — undoubtedly because of his experience in forestry — was the boss and leader on this day. He went about his business with an understated precision, while uttering a few brief instructions to his two helpers from time to time.

  The trees dropped where he wanted them, and we worked away in silence, limbing, bucking up the timber, stacking it, and cleaning the debris. Many times we considered quitting for the night, but no one would volunteer to be the first to stop, so we soldiered on until the task was complete. The warm summer evening had us wet with sweat, and the sawdust had us dry, so we retired to the dock to cool ourselves with a few frosty beverages.

  Sitting there looking out over the peaceful water, we began to talk. We talked about toys, trucks, tools, and fancy new gizmos that made it easier to drop a tree. We remembered famous old characters around the lake, now departed. We discussed our cottage plans and the projects we would undertake someday soon, and promised to help each other out in these endeavours. We spoke about sports, of course, about hockey, both pro and our boys in the local minor league. We talked about the Olympics, just past, how amazing a swimmer named Phelps was, how fast a Jamaican called Bolt could run, and what a cool name that was for a sprinter.