Oh, the courage of the innocent! The moment we stepped into the maelstrom we were blinded by thousands of tiny buzzing insects. They gleefully scrambled into our eyes, ears and nostrils, no doubt amazed to find some warm-blooded fools openly crossing their green valley on a cool May evening. We thrashed our arms around wildly, drew our shirts up over our heads and stumbled to the tap, where we poured out a thick mixture of water and insects. We then ran all the way back to the bus, the black cloud accompanying us. Thus began our memorable encounter with north Ontario’s little black fly.
Sitting outside by a campfire was out of the question, despite my father’s assertion the smoke would drive off the buzzing horde. After two minutes of slapping, wriggling and shrieking we cried defeat and retreated to the bus. After we desperately stuffed clothing into all the openings to the outside we huddled together like terrified rabbits. After a miserable supper eaten out of cans we retired early.
It was a restless night. What we didn’t know was that the black fly army had found its way in despite our blockades, and feasted on our sleeping bodies the whole night long.
The next morning, Dad got the fire going, and my brother, mother, and I headed out on a bathroom run. Again we were besieged by flies. Again we jumped and swatted like a family that had lost its collective mind. In an open area with tall grass my mother stopped in her tracks and told me to lift my hair. For some reason, my mother had always insisted little girls’ hair looked best if grown as long as possible. Apparently it made them look sweet and demure. As a result I had a mass of blond hair hanging to my waist. My brother was shorn, as it was believed long hair on a boy would tangle during daily exploits in trees and swamps and while battling cowboys, Indians and pirates.
Now, as I lifted my tresses for her to examine my back she gasped in horror. Black flies had made a home in my hair during the night, and had left bloody carnage from nape to waist. That was the last straw. An hour later we were packed and speeding back to the sanctity of home, my father’s dream of wilderness camping fast eroding under my mother’s angry tirade against the evils of dragging sweet and innocent children into Black Fly War Zones. We never did see dump bears or begging deer.
It turns out that I did inherit my father’s sense of adventure, and my significant other and I have explored much of this magnificent park. Gone are the dumps, and moose have replaced deer as roadside attractions since the park has been carefully allowed to return to a more natural forested state. In spring (yes, I’ll still visit the park in May), I’ve often seen and pitied tiny moose calves covered in swarms of black flies, their hides shimmering under the onslaught. How they must love the hot summer months when the little brutes finally die off. As for me, I also inherited some of my mother’s common sense. I never go camping without my insect repellent. Thank the gods for Muskol lotion!
~Bonnie Lavigne
Etobicoke, Ontario
The One That Got Away
Sometimes when the water is quiet you can almost hear the fish laughing at you.
~Author Unknown
It was a windy morning. Not cold, just windy, and sunny. Rainy Lake rippled like a dark blue flag creating a perfect “walleye chop” as we prepped for our daylong fishing trip. It looked to be a spectacular day for fishing.
I plopped into the old, red metal motorboat along with my dad, my cousin Sam, and my brother Jake. We began the bumpy trip across the lake to our favourite fishing spot. I loved the brisk, clean smell of the open water. A couple of Canadian loons bobbed not far off the coast of our island — diving and playing as we passed. Recent laws preventing non-Canadians from owning property here meant that very few Americans owned a piece of this beautiful wilderness. But my grandparents had purchased our island many years earlier, so our family was allowed to keep it.
As we neared our destination the landscape began to change. The shallow, sloping shoreline turned to steep rocky cliffs, and the lake began narrowing into a point. We began moving against a current as we entered the mouth of Canoe River.
Rainy Lake is a large, inland lake that straddles the Canada — U.S. border between Ontario and Minnesota. The water level is controlled by a series of dams on the several rivers that feed the lake. We were heading toward the water below the Canoe River dam; the relatively shallow water there creates a perfect spawning ground for many fish species, resulting in some of the best fishing anywhere. The only problem is that not many large fish actually live in the river — they’re back out in the lake. We’d always caught a lot of fish here, but they were always smaller.
My dad slowed the boat as we reached our fishing spot, then cut the engine. Silently we readied our poles and lines. I put on a golden spinner, and noticed my brother and my cousin doing the same. These spinners were perfect for luring shore fish like bass, perch, and the occasional northern pike. Deep-water fish, like walleyes and muskies, rarely ever decide to bite one of these shiny shallow-water skimmers.
I noticed my dad attaching a strange lure shaped like a frog to the end of his line. “Do you really think you’ll catch anything with that abomination?” I asked.
“It’s never caught me anything before,” he replied, “but you never know.”
I thought using that lure was a waste of time, but decided to say nothing. I figured if he wanted to waste his day pulling that thing through the water without a bite, he could go right ahead!
By now, the unrelenting wind had pushed our little boat into a small, sheltered bay. Without the wind, I could smell the “wormy” scent of nature, of decay and good soil. This would be a good bay to cast our lines into. There were sure to be some bass and northern pike hiding amongst the fallen logs and huge rocks protruding from the water.
I made my first cast into the shallow, murky water. Almost instantly a medium-sized bass hit my lure. It’s hard to describe the exciting, adrenaline rush of having a fish on the line. Reeling in a fish is an art. Keeping that fish on the line while pulling it toward you requires a lot of skill and finesse. Luckily I had learned from some pretty great teachers. I took a deep breath and began reeling in my line. The key to landing the fish is to keep the tip of your rod pointed up toward the sky, and to reel in the fish at a smooth, controlled rate. Eventually, I pulled the beautiful bass into the boat with the help of my dad, who handled the net. I removed the hook, then measured and weighed it. Then I put the slippery, flopping fish back in the water. Suddenly my cousin Sam called out, “I got one!”
The next hour and a half went roughly the same. With someone catching a fish, calling it out, and then bringing it into the boat with the help of someone netting it. Soon we had caught a total of seventeen fish: six for me, five for my dad, three for Jake, and three for Sam. Although we’d caught a whole variety of species, no one had yet netted a walleye. This was disappointing, but not unexpected. All the fish we’d caught were either small or medium sized.
Suddenly Dad yelled, “Got one!” There was a flurry of movement as everyone tried to get their own lures into the boat so they could help net Dad’s fish. I was ready first, so I was put in charge of the net. Stepping over open tackle boxes and coolers I made my way past Jake and Sam to the back where Dad was now standing at work, reeling in his fish. As I reached him, I realized the fish he was battling wasn’t some little perch. His rod was bent almost completely in half, and his arms gleamed with sweat from the exertion of holding the pole steady.
As I readied the largest net I prepared myself for whatever was about to emerge from the icy water. I suspected it was a very large northern pike, because the fish had taken his hook near the surface, and the line wasn’t showing the spastic movements of a struggling bass.
As Dad brought the fish in closer to the boat, in a quick flash of scales I could see it was longer than a bass, but without the sleek build of a northern pike. Suddenly the fish was right next to the boat, and I quickly plunged my net into the water. For one brief second it appeared I had succeeded in netting the fish. I felt a sudden weight as I attempted to heave
the end of the net out of the water.
What happened next will be forever burned into my memory. I managed to successfully heft the net out of the water with the huge fish in it, but the net was still over the water. I realized then that the fish was not a northern pike, but instead the largest walleye I had ever seen. Its tail and head hung over each side of the three-foot diameter net. The incredibly muscular body suddenly stiffened, turning the fish into a rigid pole. Suddenly it was no longer lying in the net, but instead it was lying on top of the frame. Then, with what seemed like a knowing look in its old, wise eye, the monstrous walleye easily rolled off the frame and slipped back into the icy waves. It spit out the hook a second later, and disappeared.
Silence swept over us like a wave over the rocks as each of us realized what had happened. We had just witnessed possibly the biggest walleye in the river, and we had no proof of it. Nobody spoke for the rest of the outing. We were all too busy thinking about the one that got away.
~Mitchell Kastanek
Amery, Wisconsin, USA
My Log Home Critters
If you talk to the animals they will talk with you and you will know each other. If you do not talk to them you will not know them, and what you do not know, you will fear.
~Chief Dan George
Perhaps, like many Canadians, you have dreamed of owning a cozy log cabin, surrounded by snow-capped, majestic peaks and nestled among pristine ski hills. Or maybe your dream cabin overlooks a shimmering ocean, teeming with aquatic wonders and graced with a coastal outline of magical islands. That was my dream, and after parting ways with my husband, I went and found my dream log home. On the Sunshine Coast in British Columbia. Near the ocean. Complete with critters.
Now, no one mentioned to me there would be coastal critters, especially my real estate agent. If she had said, “Fran, there are bears, cougars, raccoons, deer, ants, termites and woodpeckers who will want to live with you,” I would have been forewarned and stayed glued to Langley, where I’d lived for twenty-seven years.
Finding a suitable home, with a perfect suite for my then 100-year-old mom, took many ferry trips and over fifty home viewings. But I found it — a large, rustic, three-storey log home in Halfmoon Bay. The warmth and textures of the various logs and woods wrapped one in a sense of safety, cosiness and grass-roots comfort. When we moved in it seemed like my dream had finally materialized. Ah, home: just me, my mom, my dog Timber, and two cats. I do vaguely remember the home inspector mentioning something about birds nesting in the eaves and evidence of termites. But in my excitement, it didn’t really sink in.
We moved in during late October 2009. With winter fast approaching I already felt somewhat isolated. Ensconced on my half-acre hilltop property, surrounded by sentinel-like groves of cedar and pine trees, I began to experience some niggling doubts. It sure was dark at night. At times, the evening stillness felt suffocating and eerie. What on earth lurked in my garden beneath this silent shroud of darkness?
Timber needed bathroom breaks every couple of hours. Out there in that ebony evening, Timber rarely barked. Yet one night, around 10.30 p.m., just ten days after we moved in, she began barking constantly. I grabbed a flashlight and opened the door just a crack, peeking out into the black void. What was out there?
Timber continued her incessant barking. Puzzled, I opened the large window blind, shining the flashlight into the night. There! Right at my fence line, the light caught two beady eyes staring back at me. Beady eyes belonging to a large bear cub, happily investigating my neighbour’s nearby compost bin. Only a decrepit four-foot wire fence separated us. My light then caught the magnificent, shiny black coat of the biggest momma bear I have ever seen. Well, I’d never actually seen one to compare her to, but she was truly huge.
Apparently, Momma Bear, with cubs in tow, regularly toured the neighbourhood’s compost bins and garbage cans in search of the fifteen- to twenty-thousand daily calories needed to help her through hibernation. With trembling hands and a pounding heart, I picked up the phone. Then put it down to first quickly pour a glass of wine, which I chugged down. Then I called my neighbour to warn her.
“Susan,” I blurted when she answered. “There’s a huge bear and two cubs in your driveway!”
“Really, Fran?” she replied calmly. “Thanks for telling us; we’ll take a look. They won’t hurt you. Come on, Stephen,” she called to her teenage son. “Let’s go look at the bears.”
Look at the bears? I thought, downing another glass of wine while manoeuvring the large spotlight with my other hand. Are they crazy? I watched my neighbours saunter onto their deck, investigate the bear situation, then bang on a couple of pot lids. Momma Bear looked up, not particularly frightened, gathered her two sleek, shiny black cubs and sauntered down the driveway to the next neighbour’s house. My other neighbour seemingly sat calmly in the kitchen, watching while the cubs played “roll in the garbage can” as Momma Bear nonchalantly supervised playtime.
That was my first introduction to my log home critters. My second critter invasion arrived along with the first sign of spring. A loud drilling noise sat me bolt upright from sleep. Apparently, woodpeckers used to nest in my roof. A damaged soffit had presented an ideal opportunity. Although now repaired, tell that to determined woodpeckers intent on revisiting their old haunt. In our attempt to reduce the growing row of holes and neatly drilled cedar planks along the eaves, my house soon became laughingly known as “Fran’s Party House.” Three stories up, the pest control man hung large salmon fishing lures along with flashing CDs, all sporting luminous orange and green streamers that twirled in the breeze to deter the uninvited house-eating guests. When I sold the place six years later, the party favours remained dangling.
My first year introduced me to the rest of the coastal critter delights. Thousands of swarming termites teemed in my mom’s suite. Ants marched in, raccoons roamed nearby, and deer demolished delectable plants. Cougars crouched within a few hundred feet and bears reigned supreme, enjoying the neighbourhood’s veritable feasts of fruit and gourmet garbage.
I slowly learned acceptance and how to live with my fears. My dog needed a daily walk. Armed with air horn, whistle and ski pole — not unlike preparing to go to war — I walked with vigilance. I did not explore the surrounding trails but stayed on the roads. My fears didn’t leave me but luckily the wild critters didn’t attack.
Now, living back in suburbia, I no longer pack my armoury when I walk. There is no need to fear bears and cougars. Instead, I watch traffic streaming by, leaving its trail of pollutants and swirling dust.
Now, I stare with fondness at the photo of my dream log home on my office bookshelf. I reflect on warm family Christmases and celebrations, snow-covered gardens, and Christmas lights twinkling in alpine-like postcard perfection. I remember thousands of stars in the crystal clear night sky. As I recall the spicy aroma of cedar trees and the soothing sound of the ocean lapping at pristine shores, I miss it all, even those log home critters.
~Frances R. McGuckin
Abbotsford, British Columbia
Tattler Lake Tales
The one who tells the stories rules the world.
~Native American Proverb
My husband is Irish but he came to Canada for me — for better or worse. So I try to help him fit in, even though he doesn’t play hockey and only knows two words for snow. In July 2011 I took him canoeing, which included portaging in Algonquin Provincial Park. Portaging is an activity that involves carrying a canoe on your head, at least when there is no river or lake to paddle in. You can spend a few hours or several days using this traditional method of travel to get deep into the Canadian wilderness to camp. Or in our case, to get to an old Ranger cabin on Tattler Lake.
I thought it would be a romantic way to share the beauty of my country with my husband. As it turned out, it’s a wonder we are still married.
I kept a journal of the experience.
Day 1, July 27, 2011. I’ll get my complaints out of the way first:
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1. We went in the wrong direction, right from launching the canoe.
2. The bugs at this cabin are beyond my worst nightmares — like Freddy Krueger sort of nightmares. Currently, I am refusing to leave the cabin.
3. Swimming is disgusting; trod through weeds and ankle-high gunk while dodging horseflies that threaten to carry away small children. Once again, have decided to stay in the cabin, and small children are on their own.
Now, on the brighter side:
1. Found a cool “Trip Log” in the cabin that dates back over ten years. Lots of fun entries to read from previous campers who have stayed here. Wildlife sightings recorded include moose, mice and snakes. Also a couple who claim to have done it on the picnic table outside (not without bug repellent, I hope).
2. Spring at end of short trail has beautiful, cold clean water. Will send husband out to get more soon as still refusing to leave cabin due to complaint #2.
3. Trip out from the Shall Lake access point an easy one. Took about four hours to get here with one 90-metre and one 550-metre portage. Should have been easier but jerk at outfitters gave us the wrong canoe. It weighs a ton and moves like a beached whale through the water. (Hold on, maybe I have a fourth complaint!)
4. Husband brought back yummy cold spring water.
Day 2, July 28, 2011. No mice, no moose, one snake. Bugs became manageable last night with a good fire. Made the mistake of reading trip log entry from October 3, 2003 about “Old Log Cabin Man/ Ghost of Gulaf” before going to bed, resulting in “nervous nelliness” that irritated usually understanding husband. Revenge was had when husband arose at 5:30 a.m. and knocked over pee bucket.
Day 3, July 29, 2011. Awoke this morning to husband swearing like drunken sailor about bugs. Cannot make decent cup of tea on picnic table without swarms of biblical proportions.