with the school year behind us, we head to the cottage with our graduate’s new toy strapped to the car roof. She quickly catches on to the movement and rhythm of the craft. When she rises in the morning, she takes it out into the little bay in front of the cottage and paddles effortlessly around in circles and figure eights. She paddles around the island. Her strokes are smooth and powerful. She becomes more proficient, so the paddle seems to become an extension of her arms and the kayak becomes part of her lower body. The movement is elegant and silent, and I realize why many people get addicted to such travel.
When I brought a good report home in Grade 1, my dad built me a little wooden paddleboat called Flipper, named after the television series about a dolphin. Flipper was like a surfboard that you sat on and propelled yourself along with a double-bladed paddle. I enjoyed exploring on my little boat. Flipper is still around, but is used now as a bench in the children’s fort.
I love sitting on the dock in the morning with my coffee, watching the kayak glide quietly across the water. My oldest will be off to high school in the fall. I know time passes quickly and soon she will be getting a summer job, graduating from high school, and perhaps leaving for university. Friends and commitments will lessen her time at the cottage. I don’t look forward to those days. I like having the whole family here with me. But such is life, and it will happen to each of my children in turn, just as it happened to me and my parents. Life moves on, and you can’t change that.
For now I’ll enjoy watching a young lady and her kayak — and I’m happy that cellphones don’t work out here.
Part 2
Summertime Escape
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.