Cottage Daze (4 page)

I ask every conceivable type of outdoor worker how they attempt to combat these nuisances of nature: a ranger in Algonquin Park, a forester, a hydro lineman, and a fishing guide. I approach the elderly lady in the cottage down the road who seems to spend all of her waking hours with her gnomes in the flower garden. I even query Health Canada. They all give variations of the same answer: “Wear long pants tucked into socks and a light-coloured, long-sleeved shirt with a collar, and, if you do not mind looking like a dork, a head net and peaked cap offers effective protection. Oh, and slather on the DEET.”

My Falkland Islander and I are determined to find a natural, green alternative to take back the outdoors. Well, actually, Danny has no clue, but it is my mission with him as bait. I will send my friend out into the breach, knowing that the mosquitoes and blackflies will gather from miles around, attracted, like Dracula, to this virgin blood source. Some might think me cruel; I call it research.

Biting insects are attracted to dark clothing. I buy Danny a black sweatshirt and don a white tee myself, before asking him to help me pile some firewood. I am left in relative peace, while Danny twitches, flails his arms, and swats his hands at an invisible enemy. Finally, with a cry, he runs off in search of some repellent. In his absence, the blackflies turn their attentions to me, making me realize that, though they may be attracted to dark clothing, if the only food available is the Man from Glad, they are not fussy eaters.

Perfumes, soaps, scented products, and hairsprays entice the biting flies. Danny has no hair, so hairspray is out, but I do convince him that Axe body scent not only attracts the ladies as much as they show in the commercials, it also repulses the flying pests. He soaks himself in it, ventures outside, and is swarmed by a cloud of females.

If you are thinking that I put all the research onus on my assistant, let me say that I also do my part. Since the biting bugs are attracted to the ammonia in sweat, I try lazing around instead of working, and, because mosquitoes are attracted to carbon dioxide, I suggest to my wife that she should try talking as little as possible while outdoors. Neither tactic is entirely successful.

Garlic apparently wards off more than vampires. It acts on the insect's sensory capabilities, overwhelming them so they can't smell the carbon dioxide and lactic acid that attracts them to humans. A concentrated garlic spray applied on plants, trees, and lawns may have your homestead smelling like an Italian restaurant, but it is somewhat successful. Try eating fresh garlic or a capsule of garlic powder every day. Unfortunately, this also overwhelms my wife's sensory capabilities.

With the love of spring lost I turn to brewer's yeast, feeling that this is finally something I can work with. In fact, I spend more time researching this bug deterrent than any other suggested to me. I'm not sure it succeeds. After ingesting a few bottles, I believe the bugs are just as interested in me, but I don't really care.

Technology has taken over most facets of our lives, so it is not a surprise that it has involved itself in the battle of the bugs. CO2-based machines seem to work, provided they are positioned properly. We hook one up by the house, and I serve Danny his afternoon tea on the deck. In minutes he is being eaten alive, and I realize that the mosquitoes, attracted to the machine, pass by a pre-dinner appetizer. Remember to place the machine between the area to be protected and the area the mosquitoes are coming from.

While most of us do not appreciate biting flies, we must always remember they are an important part of the ecosystem. Birds, bats, and fish feed on them. Blackfly larvae are a sign of unpolluted waters, and it has been thought that the adults pollinate our beloved blueberries. And they have been called the region's best conservationists — protecting wilderness from larger numbers of human trespassers.

My former friend Danny? The mosquitoes and blackflies might keep the less hardy away, but in his estimation the beauty of cottage country is worth some minor irritation. The only things that do really work for him are a netted suit that has him looking like a beekeeper, his self-roll cigarettes that keep everything away, and a heavy supply of AfterBite to deal with the inevitable attacks. Oh, and a late-afternoon Muskoka breeze that has him dreaming about the Falkland wind.

Nature's Guardians

I attended the Spring Cottage Life Show in April. Yes, it is a show for dreaming — about that ultimate ski boat or sporty little sailboat, a new gazebo or sauna, a mobile drinks bar that follows you around, or that space-age, composting toilet. Okay, I don't really dream about the toilet. There are toys and there are more toys, all meant to make your cottage experience more luxurious, more enjoyable, more exciting, and infinitely more comfortable.

When I had mentally used up my next year's salary on gimmicks and playthings, it was the new green trend that caught my attention. Well, it's not that new, but it does seem to be finally taking a firm foothold in our cottage behaviour. I know for too many years, for many of us the word “green” conjured up negative images of a utilitarian, uncomfortable retreat. I think we have finally began to realize that if we do not take steps to help preserve the natural beauty that surrounds us at our cottages, it might be lost to our children and future generations. As cottagers, we are privileged to share in the natural environment, but at the same time, we have a responsibility as nature's guardians.

Far too often in the past, people have bought cottages for their wilderness value, and then tried to tame that wilderness. The process seemed logical. We would just tidy the place up a bit, make it more visually appealing and less of a mosquito haven. We would cut out the long grass and reeds that framed the beach along the shoreline. We would bring in some fine sand to make the beach seem more tropical.

We would thin the trees, cut back the bramble and undergrowth, plant some grass seed or bring in some sod to replace what we had removed, build a concrete retaining wall to separate lawn from sand, and then put down some chemicals to prevent the weeds from regaining a foothold. The cottage now looks tidy and cared for. Our view to the water has been enhanced, and the number of flying insects has been reduced.

We get so busy admiring and tending our manicured grounds and comfortable waterfront that we do not immediately notice that the ducks, mergansers, herons, and loons do not come around as much as they used to. The songbirds, who had brightened our mornings with their music, do not seem to be quite as exuberant. The frogs, too, no longer keep up their end in that beautiful symphony of the night. We blame these problems on global warming, lack of government environmental initiatives, or the wake from those unruly motorboats that zip past. Seldom do we look at ourselves as part of the problem.

But what can we do?

The truth of the matter is that the greenest thing you can do for nature is often just to leave it alone. In a cottage environment, that is, of course, impossible — but it is imperative that we minimize the disruption. Through urbanization we have banished, either deliberately or inadvertently, the abundant plant and animal life that lived there before our arrival. We must not let this happen at the cottage. While native plant life absorbs most surface water, over half the rainwater that falls on your manicured cottage lawn pours right over the grass and into the water, carrying with it any harmful fertilizers and pesticides.

To me, leaving things as they are sounds like the ultimate lazy man's plan. I can chuck my “honey-do” list and head to the Muskoka chair on the dock, accompanied by my brand new, handy-dandy, mobile, follow-you-around bar.

Farewell to a Cottage Friend

I lost a good friend on the May long weekend. I wouldn't say it was sudden; old age had set in, so it was not totally unexpected. Still, it came as a shock, and it certainly put a damper on our first visit to the cottage this year.

Worse, it was partially my fault. I ask myself, would he have stayed around a little longer if I had not been so rough with him? Perhaps I could have shown more tender, loving care. A thorough cleaning once in a while might have helped. He worked hard, he was efficient, and when done, what would I do in return? I would take what he offered and then shut him up, leave him standing there alone while I escaped to the comfort of the cabin to sit around with family and friends, talking, laughing, and dining. When a storm blew in, I would run off to the shelter of the cottage without a thought for him drenched in the rain. Often, I didn't even bother to cover him up.

I am getting a tear in my eye now, just thinking about him. He was strong, unpretentious, loyal, and reliable. He was really nothing to look at. He was a bit greasy and sometimes smelled a little gassy. He moved about with a little bit of a limp in his later years. He had certain quirks and mannerisms that you just learned to accept, deal with, and work around. He was unbalanced, and his knob didn't work properly. But he never let me down.

He was twenty-six years old when he finally bit it. Now, that doesn't sound very old in human terms, but for a barbecue it is ancient. I know how old he was because we kids had given him to my parents on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. They celebrated their fiftieth last May. He spent some time at our family home, and then he was shuffled off to the cottage when a fancy brand name barbecue came along.

I do not remember feeling too bad for him, because the cottage is a nice place to retire. He didn't want to retire, though, so he soldiered on. We would throw him in the dark, dank shed for winter, and then we'd pull him out upon our return to the cottage in spring. He never seemed to mind; actually, he seemed thrilled to see us. I'd throw on a propane tank and stand out there with him, flipping steaks or sausages or burgers. I would drink a cold beer and feed him a little bit of sauce. When he was done, I would give him a little scratch on the head with a wire brush, and he was content.

I hope you don't mind me, in these politically correct times, calling this trusted outdoor cooking implement a he, but a barbecue just seems to me to be a masculine thing. He was always there when I needed him. He was great for my self-esteem. I have always been a little inept around the kitchen, but when I was partnered with him I could cook up whatever my wife sent my way. She could hand me a platter of chicken, beef, or ribs — no problem.

At home, three or four barbecues came and went. These shiny new appliances helped out for a little time, and then meekly packed it in. Even with all their bells and whistles and hefty price tags, they had nothing on our old comrade. When I bought the family cottage, I insisted that the purchase include this faithful friend. Perhaps it was cottage life that prolonged his existence; the beauty, the fresh air, the peacefulness. It seemed like he would live forever.

This spring, my wife set out a plate of T-bones, so off I went to the storage shed. I yanked him out … and then it happened. His top fell off, his body disintegrated into dust. I stood there, stunned and sad. Holding my hand was a wooden handle; it was all that was left of my friend.

I wandered into the cottage looking woeful and forlorn, and my wife could tell instantly something had happened.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“He's gone,” I croaked. “Can you throw those steaks on the broiler?”

Boat Launch

It was a bit of a Mr. Bean moment. I had unstrapped the boat from the trailer and then backed it down into the water at the public boat launch. I jumped out of the car, went around back, released the winch, and unhooked the winch rope from the ring on the boat's bow. It was then that I realized that I had not backed up quite far enough to get the boat afloat and free from the trailer. So I jumped back into the vehicle and inched it another foot backwards into the lake. The boat drifted free and floated out into the bay.

I stood there with my hands on my hips looking at my boat floating fifteen feet off shore. I tried to coax it in. “Come here, little boat,” I muttered. I thought about paddling my hands in the water, drawing them inwards to create a current that would pull the boat in, but decided that, although this technique works in the bathtub with my toy battleships or yellow ducky, it was not likely to work here in this big lake with a sixteen-foot runabout.

I used to be pretty good with a lariat in my horseman days, but the only rope I had of any length was stowed neatly in the boat's storage locker. What to do? The breeze seemed to be picking up, ruffling the water and pushing the boat away. I didn't even have my swim shorts with me. I looked around: nobody was there, no one was around to bear witness to my foolhardiness. In that respect, at least, it was my lucky day. I removed my shoes, rolled up my jeans, and stepped gingerly into the lake.

I thought if I were able to walk out to my knees and then stretch my arms fully, I might just be able to reach. I sloshed out deeper, but the boat seemed to be drifting away at the same speed. I was past my knees, then the cold water was cooling my tender regions, causing me to walk on tiptoes. Soon I was swimming, doing the breast stroke until I reached a dragging boat line. I turned and towed the boat towards shore.

I remembered the time when I had been so excited, and in such a rush to get over to our island cottage, that I had arrived at the launch and backed the boat in, forgetting to put the plug in the vessel. I backed it down into the water, unhooked it, got it started, and ran it over to the dock to load our gear and provisions. An old-timer standing there with a fishing line in the water, barely giving me any notice, mumbled almost incoherently, “Yer boat seems to be ridin' low, young fella.” A pause to spit some tobacco. “Appears to be sinking — sure you 'membered the plug?”

As I swam, fully clothed, for shore, I consoled myself with the fact that at least this time, my act of stupidity had gone unseen. Too soon, as it turned out. I was halfway back, stretching my toes to feel the bottom, when I heard an approaching truck. I panicked and swam hard. Unfortunately, tugging a boat along slows you down. I was still a ways out when the vehicle came into view. I froze and dropped low in the water: “Please don't look this way.”