Passersby stop and stare at this innovative yoga instructor, admiring the talented boarder as she does handstands on her paddle board in a bikini. I do believe I invented that upside-down style of boarding a number of years back in the Maui surf — minus the bikini part, of course. I don’t tell her yoga group of my talented exploits, however, afraid that I may be coerced into a demonstration. But I do paddle past in my canoe and shout at them, “Why not sit down?” They stare at me like I’m crazy.
Within the Cottage Wood
We are quite fortunate. Our modest log cottage is built on a three-and-a-half-acre island that we have all to ourselves. Neighbours, though in our experience usually friendly and helpful, are not necessarily what we want to have really close at hand at our summer escape.
On the eastern third of our island is our civilization. Our cottage, boathouse, and dock look southward towards our little bay, and on the eastern tip are a small bunkie and a rock point where we have our evening bonfires. On the western two-thirds of our land, we have what we fondly call “the forest.” Through the thick, dark bush of cedar, birch, maple, balsam, ash, spruce, and pine, a well-trodden trail skirts the shoreline. A spiderweb of lesser trails lead off to little lakeside landings. Here is where our kids, with visiting friends and cousins, like to play their many active games. Upon every visit, I spend some time wandering around the island trail with my chainsaw, clearing away any fallen debris. In the early morning or in the evening after dinner, my wife and I like to walk the trail to enjoy the many lake vantage points around the island.
During our last visit, we had just our two youngest children along; the older girls had to work at home. The son and daughter who came helped us with many of our cottage chores, and then went off to play. Soon, being just two, they were bored. Somehow my son managed to coax my darling wife into taking part in some kind of medieval fighting game within our primeval forest. I was somewhat surprised. I am often coerced into participating in some juvenile game with the kids because I am a dad, and I am, says my wife, somewhat childish. She has always avoided such play. She is more reserved than I in this way — and certainly usually too busy.
We were given sturdy foam swords as weapons and three lives to expend, and then were sent out into the forest in a game of survival. My spouse, with a dramatic and fashionable flare, had stuck sappy pine boughs and twigs into her hair for camouflage and carried with her a painted plywood shield for protection. This looked quite ridiculous, juxtaposed with her bathing suit top, work shorts, and sandals. Coward that I am, and not wanting to relinquish one of my valuable lives nor lose such a game to my wife, I hid quietly in the underbrush and watched events unfold around me.
At one point my son, slightly bored and disinterested, walked through the open grass by the dock. He couldn’t find his dad to wallop, so took out his frustrations by swinging his sword at some buzzing fly. I spied my chameleon wife sneaking tree to tree towards him. Suddenly, she came sprinting out of the forest screaming like a wild banshee, pouncing on the startled boy with such a fury, as yet unseen in this children’s game, that he fell to the ground cowering in fear. He tried gamely to defend himself and fight off her savage flurry of blows, but the excitement of the moment had her wailing like a Pict. She buffeted him with more blows than were necessary, and certainly more than the unwritten rules of the game called for. Perhaps, he lost all three of his lives in the one violent attack.
At this precise moment, two stout men drifted through the bay, close to our dock and the battlefield, trolling lines behind their little fishing skiff. They watched in horror this bizarre and cult-like behaviour. What they saw was this raving lunatic, a femme fatale, charge from the forest in bikini top and torn shorts, with pine boughs and broken branches sticking from her tangled, wild mess of hair. This Amazon warrior fell upon a poor strapping lad, screaming shrilly, and fairly beating him half to death.
After thoroughly throttling her poor son, my wife spied the two gawking boaters, smiled sweetly and asked, “How’s the fishing?” They meekly, and without a word, showed her two healthy-sized lake trout, then pulled in their lines and motored quickly south, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the strange island.
Yes, cottage privacy, it’s often cherished, and sometimes needed.
The Cottage Fleet
The boat pitched wildly and horizontal rain pellets buffeted the exterior of my cabin. The driving wind whipped the canvas. I struggled queasily from my berth and groped my way over to the railing. I felt a touch of seasickness, so I opened our little window and tried to peer out into the gale. Whitecaps rolled in from the open sea and smashed into the vessel’s starboard side, splashing me with spray.
I held tight, fearing that, at any time, I might get washed overboard, never to be seen again. How much longer can our hardy craft take this beating, I pondered, before we break up and sink to the ocean’s depths? The water blurred my vision and the mist was thick — but, suddenly, there it was, a glimpse of rock and trees.
“Land ho!” I shouted. “Land ho! We’re saved!”
“Would you be quiet!” growled my darling wife, awakened from her slumbers. “What are you doing? You’ll wake everybody up on the island. It’s the middle of the night.”
I looked around dozily, and then ducked back into the half-enclosure that protected our bed on the pontoon boat. I wiped the rain from my face and then climbed back into my cozy bunk. “Aye-aye, Captain,” I murmured. The gentle rocking motion and the sound of bumpers rubbing on our wooden dock soon had me back to my dreams.
It is the middle of summer and we have quite a family crew visiting us at the cottage — twenty in all. It is a fun and busy week, and visitors are quartered everywhere — in the cabin, up in the loft, in the boathouse and bunkie. The kids sleep on cots in a couple of canvas wall tents. My wife and I had volunteered to sleep on the boat — turned floating bunkhouse — though perhaps she now regrets her generosity.
Boats are such a big part of cottage life. One sees all manner of vessels out on the lakes: aluminum fishing boats, runabouts, speedboats, jet skis, sailboats, canoes, kayaks, windsurfers, paddle boards, and rowboats. The kinds of boats that are tied up to the cottage dock say a lot about the cottager. We have been a family of canoeists, and have four canoes set on a log canoe rack on shore — one aluminum, one fibreglass, one plastic whitewater, and one cedar-strip. Two kayaks are drawn up on the shore. A runabout is tied to one side of the dock, and is kept busy taking the kids skiing and tubing.
There are also floating tubes, leaky air mattresses, clumsily crafted log rafts, and knee-boards. On this summer morning, the odd assortment of line-of-battle ships joins the kayaks and a canoe in the bay for a re-enactment of the Battle of Trafalgar. Boats are flipped and scuttled and boarded — sailors, pirates, soldiers, and navy cadets are tossed overboard. There is much hollering, splashing, laughing, and screeching, and in the end all claim victory. Then the boats are beached and emptied, and lunch is served.
The pontoon boat is a more recent addition to our cottage fleet, and has proved its worth when the cottage becomes a busy place. It is especially valuable because our cabin sits a mile offshore on a three-acre island. It simplifies ferrying people and gear back and forth from the mainland.
A family of six and their provisions can be hauled in one trip. It allows older aunts to visit, able to easily step across to a flat boat deck rather than down into a v-hull. It adds extra sitting space for lunch on the dock, or for the revelry of the cocktail hour. The adults climb aboard for a tour of the lake, a brief respite from the energy of the children.
And, it can serve as extra sleeping quarters — for the captain and her first mate.
Dressing Up for Kayaking
“Do you want to wear a skirt?” asked my friend.
“I beg your pardon?” I stammered, whirling around and almost knocking him off the pier with the kayak I was carrying. I stared at him, dumbfounded. He had his own flowing miniskirt on under a yellow pad
dling life vest. When I had agreed to go kayaking with Moe, I hadn’t realized that he liked to dress up as Little Bo Peep.
He stared at me with an air of seriousness. “I admit wearing a skirt takes some getting used to,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Some people feel a little trapped and encumbered in them.”
Trapped and encumbered? I would think more loose and airy. “I’m fine,” I said, wondering if this kayak outing was such a good idea. I had been a little timid anyway at the prospect of paddling around breezy Georgian Bay in such a long, narrow, low-floating vessel. I was a canoeist after all, favouring a beaver tail to a double dipper.
I stepped cautiously down into my tipsy craft, settled my long legs into the cockpit, and paddled out into the calm waters of Honey Harbour. This seemed simple enough. With the double-bladed paddle you can move along fairly quickly, manoeuvring through the rocks and shoals of the protected bay, the slim bow of the kayak like an arrow piercing the water.
Our mission was to paddle into Georgian Bay Islands National Park, around the south side of Roberts Island, and then across through the narrows to Beausoleil Island, have some lunch, go for a hike, then return back to the harbour via the channel between Roberts Island and Little Beausoleil. It wasn’t to be a long paddle, just enough to get the muscles back into order in the early season.
Beausoleil Island, because of its aboriginal cultural heritage, had in March become officially designated as a national historic site. I had also heard that Beausoleil had a population of the endangered Massasauga rattler, and I had my camera along in case we spotted an elusive snake or two. My friend did not seem as enthused with this part of our endeavour, and why would he be, seeing as he preferred traipsing around in a skirt.
I had left the dock first, and had made my way around Picnic Island and out into the more exposed channel. As agreed, we hugged the shoreline for safety, especially in the cold spring water. My kayak’s nose sliced through the wind and waves. Some of the bigger chop broke over my bow and splashed me where I sat. My more experienced friend soon darted past me, warm and comfortable, his skirt locked in around him, closing in the opening and keeping him dry.
Still, the extra energy I seemed to have to exert to keep up kept me warm, and the attention needed to keep the kayak upright and pointed into the waves kept my mind focussed on things other than my friend’s functional skirt. Osprey nested in the cleverly crafted nesting poles that sat out on a good many of the rock outcrops, the towers provided by the Georgian Bay Osprey Society. There were also nesting geese, loons, blue heron, cormorants, gulls, and ducks, and in the kayaks we could sneak past them quietly and unobtrusively. At this time of year, most of the windswept cottages along the shoreline were deserted. I’m sure the cottages and the bays were full of energy through the summer months — still, many of the places seemed wild and exposed.
There were no rattlesnakes to be found that day. In spite of some cramped legs in the narrow craft, it was a fun if easy adventure. Next time, of course, I promise to be more tolerant of dress — especially when wearing a skirt keeps you comfortable and dry. Still, I am a canoeist at heart, favouring quick-dry pants or wool trousers.
Slow Boat across the Shield
I have always been excited by the mysteries of river travel. Travelling aboard a huge cruise ship across the ocean has never held much fascination for me; a slow boat down an ancient waterway has always been more in line with my spirit of adventure. My wife’s folks were visiting from Vancouver, so on a warm, sunny early summer’s day, we decided to show off some of the best of cottage country with a day trip along the Trent–Severn Waterway, from Georgian Bay to Lake Couchiching.
After reading Mark Twain, what adventuresome youngster has not dreamt of being Huck Finn, navigating a river’s wide expanse by raft, canoe, or boat, with new adventures around each bend? The changing scenery, passing boats, bustle of activity, and the characters viewed on shore make it a trip of the imagination. We navigated the well-marked, clear waters across the Shield, through the hidden shoals, precambrian granite gorges, and rocky channels of the Severn, past scenery that is delectably Canadian.
The trip also provided the opportunity to witness an amazing cross-section of cottage life, with every type of recreational home, bungalow, and cabin on display. Cottages hugged the shoreline and clung to every craggy knoll, rock outcrop, and ragged clifftop, much like the towering, elegant pines and bizarrely twisted conifer trunks and root systems that clung precariously to the smallest amounts of soil.
Children swam off docks or daringly leapt off towering cliffs. Some were pulled around on bouncing tubes or skied in nearby bays. Adults relaxed with a fishing line in the water or lounged on their docks. While we admired their cottages, they appeared entranced by the seemingly endless array of watercraft drifting past, from canoes and rowboats, fishing skiffs, jet skis and runabouts, to huge sailboats and yachts. Hands were raised in greeting, but I have to wonder if the same enthusiasm remains at the end of a busy summer.
The completion of the Trent–Severn Waterway in 1920, after eighty-seven years of sporadic construction, marked the realization of a century-and-a-half-old dream, born out of a fear of American expansionist interests and spurred along by commercial transport desires. However, by the time the motor launch Irene made the first passage of the system that summer, logging was in decline and railways were burgeoning as an economical means of moving goods. By the 1940s, there was not enough traffic on the waterway to warrant keeping it open. The post-war economy saved the system as people found they had the time and money for pleasure boating. Locks that handled some two thousand vessels in the early 1950s now see over 250,000 each summer.
There is a certain camaraderie amongst the boaters at each of the locks. We got tips from the waterway’s frequent explorers about the best place to get a riverside breakfast of back bacon and eggs (at the Waubic Restaurant Inn), the best campsites (at the boater-access-only Swift Rapids Lock or at Georgian Bay Islands National Park), and the best riverside accommodations. We also heard horror stories of boaters who tied their crafts solidly to the upper rings of Lock 43 and then struggled in panic as the water dropped beneath them, the irreversible mechanics of the lock set in motion. Another story had the cables letting loose on the Big Chute railway lift, sending a bevy of boaters on a roller-coaster free fall into Gloucester Pool eighteen metres below. Perhaps these were mere lock myths, but they gave us something to consider as we made our way through the system.
The guardian of the waterways is Parks Canada, and we found their lock operators extraordinarily friendly, considering the operational mayhem they must face each day. “Love the job,” said Amanda Thorpe, Lock 45 attendant, as she helped garner control of a huge yacht that bounced into the system’s smallest lock. Thorpe told us they see many early season cruisers from the eastern seaboard of the U.S. in the midst of a circuit that takes them down the St. Lawrence, through this waterway and the Great Lakes, and eventually out the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. They are on the water for six months or so.
Our day’s outing was nowhere near as ambitious. We idled along, the wind and sun putting a glow on our face and our spirit. With the magnificent scenery and the steady, seductive rhythm of the river’s current slapping against the boat, the watery miles glided effortlessly past. We reached Lake Couchiching and our pullout in late afternoon.
The Hobby
I think I have to get a hobby for the cottage. You know, something like stamp collecting, birdwatching, or perhaps pinning butterflies to corkboards.
It is a hot afternoon here at the lake and we have a big gang at the cottage, but I’m a little bored. I go for a swim, sit on the dock and read a few chapters of my book, get a cold beverage from the fridge, and then go in search of something to do.
I grab a couple of baseball gloves and head out looking for my son, who is always happy to toss around a ball. I find him with his grandpa putting the finishing touches to a log table they are building for the dock.
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nbsp; “Don’t like my charming little dock table?” I ask them, grinning — but my father-in-law just scowls in response. The wobbly, crooked table that I had hammered together many years ago has already cost him countless beers, and yesterday, in what was undoubtedly the last straw for him, the last of his beloved rum had spilled on the dock when one of the table legs buckled and collapsed. My dogs had lapped it up, so it wasn’t really wasted!
“Throw a ball around?” I ask my son.
“Can’t now, Dad,” he says. “Grandpa is going to show me how to build a proper baseball bat.”
Hmm, I guess the one I had fashioned out of a rotten birch log was not good enough. Well, there is always my dear wife. I find her hard at work by the tool shed, where she has peeled a small cedar tree and is busy fashioning a towel rack for the boathouse. She saw the design in a local cottage store and decided she could do it herself rather than take out a bank loan to purchase the one offered. She has taken a six-foot tree that I had cleared from our forest trail, peeled away the bark from the trunk and branches, clipped down the limbs, fashioning them into hanging pegs, and anchored the base in a larger log. She is in the process of sanding it, making it ready to stain. It appears both functional and eclectic, smart and stylish in a cottage way. I’m impressed.
“Want to play a game of Scrabble on the dock?” I ask. “We can play on the new dock table.”
Still in a Daze at the Cottage Page 5
