Usually the road was plowed to the corner of Sawmill Bay. Here we would park with
two or
three other cars along the road edge adjacent the now graying, gritty and decomposing
snow banks left by the plow.
The
lake ahead still stood frozen, apparently unmoving in the half-light of the
overcast day,
but in the background, there was the constant deep
throated cracking and humanlike
groaning of the shifting ice. The snow
at the road
edge was mixed
with dirt, grass
and debris scraped and deposited there
by the plow. The residual
snow that was left just behind these plow ridges,
added little contrast
to the smattering of exposed earth
matted with decayed limp grasses, exposed
stones, and assorted
weed stalks that abounded in this strip. Most of the snow had by
now receded into the protection of the cover of the forest. The private roadway
that backed our cottages was still mostly
covered in snow, shaded by the overhang
of evergreens and mature hardwoods. A single-track heading south lay exposed on the snow covered road surface, following the unseen natural
curve of the tire ruts cut into the road
bed underneath.
There was nothing
but an eerie silence, disturbed
only by the sound of the westerly
driven winds, whistling ominously thorough the bony upturned fingerlike branches of the maple, oak, birch and poplar
standing among the evergreens. As one listened intently, the sound of their stout trunks creaking, and
cracking could be detected mixed deeply in the sound of the relentless March winds.
The three
of us gathered our packs,
gear and shovels,
locked the car doors, stepped
in turn over the
snow bank, and headed along
the single track
into the overhang of trees along the
private roadbed to the south. The going was good, the road surface still firm underneath our feet. The pathway
climbed the first
hill parallel to the McLelland’s place. As we trudged along, each lost in our own
thoughts, I looked over and reflected about how lonely and empty
it seemed without the warmth of summer, barking
dogs, and the life
brought by the
presence of cottagers there for the good times.
Its bleakness actually gave me a chill.
Instinctively, I drew
the collar my canvass jacket
tightly around my neck
and turned my attention back to the pathway and the way ahead. In the protection of the rising hillside, the winds dwindled
to a whisper of their
former might. All that disturbed the stillness in this
place was the distinctive crunch
of our boots
against the now
crusty snow on the road surface
and the steady
thumping of fabric
brushing against fabric
as we moved steadily along.
We now started down the backside of the first ridge onto a
level piece of roadway that
bridged
the entrance road to our cottage with that of our neighbor Gordon Blisssett.
Here again the wind picked
up. Along our left the trees stood
unmoving, dutifully lined behind the old rusting
fence of wire and rotting
cedar that bordered
the roadway. To the
right, the trees
gradually thinned into
a flat area leading to the back of Gordon’s cabin. His large oval
stained and varnished pine slab, “Blissett’s” sign, moved rhythmically creaking against the
confines of the rusted chains that carried its weight, driven constantly by
gusts of raw wind. There were no signs
of life or recent intrusions evident
in the snow here. Gordon
had not been
here yet this
year. We passed
quietly still unspeaking.
We reached
our road. Our small unassuming sign hung silently above and to the left
of the
gate at the entrance declaring “Doane Heggtveit”, its ragged face and edges
unmoving in the still air. The road here rose steeply behind the
gate toward the lake, hiding everything, but the forest, from
view. The gate
was imbedded in about a foot of crusty
snow, it could not be moved. The snow was significantly deeper
here, protected from direct daylight by the slope of the hill.
We waded carefully into the deep
snow sinking right up to the
crotch of our jeans as we approached it, and then one at a time we each crossed
over the gate. This was accomplished by placing our right foot first onto one
of the exposed metal
strands that formed
the base of one of the squares
that ran vertically and horizontally across gate
surface above the snow line. We then each grabbed the gate’s top rail for stability and lifting ourselves up, turned and placed the other leg over
the top into a similar square on the backside. Individually we crossed over,
and then stepping down into
the snow bed on the backside of the hill we each
waited until all of us were standing
in the deep snow on the other
side.
Once
all our supplies had been passed across and we had all crossed the gate, we
continued our trip. Here we were made our way more slowly, following each
other’s awkward cavernous steps,
through deep drifts
of the undisturbed rotting snow. It was
still deep here, as it lay protected by the dense cover of the surrounding
forest compounded by the
lack of direct
sunlight. Step by step, and in single
file, we made
our way slowly to the top.
Under its surface
the snow was
actually layered, created
by period temperature swings over the
winter season, first
thawing, then freezing up again and finally adding
more snow cover. When one of us first stepped
into its surface, snow’s first strong
sub-layer would hold us for a moment or maybe two, then suddenly
it would give way, dropping us; buried
to the hip. We were
therefore forced to stop periodically to wait, to help one another, as one or the other of us fell prostate
and then struggled to regain our footing.
We finally
reached the top of the
hill. Surprisingly there was no snow
here; the crest received the full warmth
and benefit of the spring
sunlight in spite
of the steady westerly
winds. The tufted grasses and emerald moss here, mixed with rock, lay exposed
and actually showed signs of fresh new growth. The prevailing wind rejoined us
head on as we moved over the crest
of the hill
causing each of us to draw our clothing tighter
to us.
There she sat, the cottage, quiet
and indifferent in the dull
gray of the overcast skies above and the corresponding hard lake surface
beyond. Long and low, her dark green paint shadowing the snow shoveled off the roof
to the walkway along her back. To the
right, the grass and pathways in front of the tool shed, cabin and woodshed lay
completely exposed; the snow had retreated some time ago from the entire
hillside back into the shadows of
the evergreens. The clothes line to the left danced in the direct path of the
wind off the lake.
We rested
a moment, taking
it all in. The ominous
silence of this
time of year,
still broken by the wind and the creaking of the trees
had always struck me as irreconcilable with
my image of the lake. My mind always
locked on an image of deep blue
waters, with flashes of sunlight glistening and dancing among
the waves, the matching sky would hold
only a few puffs of lazy
white cloud making their way slowly to the horizon beyond and the drifting vapor trails of long since
passed aircraft. I saw the
woods and land surrounding
the cottage, alive with the movement of dark green leaves and grasses
orchestrated by warm summer breezes.
Birds swooped, twittered and sang, while
butterflies, dragonflies, bees, wasps,
hornets, mosquitoes, flies
and honeybees buzzed
and danced through
the open spaces. I completed this picture bringing it to life filling
the air with the sound of laughter and shouts of children playing uncaringly
along the dancing water’s edge.
We unpacked
our shovels and began the tedious task
of clearing the snow away
from the back-shed
door and the
path to the tool shed. This took
only about five
minutes with all three of us working
at it. Soon the lock was off the back-shed screen door and the inner solid door pushed back. Darkness
and the musty smell of mice and mould mixed with cold unmoving air greeting our
senses. I had Reid lift and prop up one of the outside plywood flaps that
covered the screens, letting natural light into the cavernous interior of the back shed. I stepped inside
and instinctively stamped
the excess snow
from my pant legs and boots. I reached up and unlocked
the second door,
placed the padlock
on the sill to
the right and
pushed down hard on the old latch.
I placed my shoulder against
the door and shoved,
it gave and opened into
the darkened kitchen.
Here the air smelled stale,
a different smell, there was a hint of decaying
food and the musty scent of unused
bedding.
Somehow
it seemed colder here in the darkness of the enclosed kitchen. I edged slowly forward, one foot ahead of the other,
further into the shadows temporarily blinded by the sudden absence of light,
past the wood
stove with its white sides
ghostlike in the half-
light of the reflected overcast
day. Once I had made
it past the stove I carefully felt my
way gingerly toward
the left-hand wall behind
the kitchen counter,
the home of the main breaker for
the cottage lights.
As soon as I arrived
at the edge of the
counter, I carefully removed my gloves.
Running my hands
across the cold
pattern of the tongue and groove
pine surface, I used my fingers to grope in the darkness
for the panel and the switch box adjacent. I quickly found the corner
of the main panel and then knowingly moved my hand to the right. My fingers
brushed across the exposed Bakelite breaker switch and the
icy surface of its metal housing
box underneath. Feeling
this switch, I immediately leaned forward and gave the main part of
the switch a hard push. It slowly gave and then suddenly clicked into place,
but nothing happened. It was still
dark; the only
light visible was the smallest hint of light
peeking through the top edge
of the twin
shutters on the large window overlooking the lake. My eyes were now becoming accustomed to the darkness. I turned back toward the doorway to the shed and reached
forward for the light
switch to the right of the entrance barely visible in the dimness. The steam
from my breath rose and hung like
a small cloud
in the cold-trapped air of the
cottage interior, obscuring momentarily my view of the doorway
and my friend
standing framed by the
light beyond. I lifted the switch and the room
dazzled with light.
I asked Reid to open the shutters at the side of the cottage and on the deck by the lake. He turned on his heels and headed
outside followed by Terry who was much too short to reach the window at the side.
As I looked around
the kitchen I could see the usual
telltale signs of mice. Here and there I
could see the
odd cluster of dark torpedo
shaped droppings along
the back face
of the counter and fragments here
and there from
some of the
carefully triple packed
bags of dehydrated foodstuff that we had left for
just such a visit as the one we made
today.
We’d
have to do a bit of cleaning.
Terry
was outside having climbed over the greying and decaying snow pile that had
fallen off the roof into the shadows of the back of the cottage next to the
back-shed. He now stood deep in the snow bank by the propane tanks patiently waiting
l for my instructions. I now shouted to Terry to open
the valves on the two propane tanks.
I waited for his confirmation and then carefully removed the lids and their
retainers from the
top of the wood stove,
placing them individually in a stack on the front
burner of the old Beech
brand propane stove
that stood next
it. By now Reid had the shutters locked
back from the
side window, adding
to the brightness of the
room. Returning to the back shed I grabbed some old newspaper and a handful of
kindling. Back in the kitchen,
I first crumbled up the newspaper into individual balls, using one sheet at a time. I then
lined the bottom
of the stove
with the balls.
I laid several thin strips
of cedar kindling across the newsprint bed in a carefully laid out crisscross pattern. Returning to the shed I grabbed several
pieces of birch
and maple stove wood, then
laid these lengthways across the kindling
bed.
Reaching up, I took down the can of matches. It was an old gray back metal coffee can from
the early fifties
that we kept
on the top of the cupboard exclusively for this purpose. I removed the lid, took a
single match and struck it across the metal surface of the stove. It burst
into flame. The strong
smell of sulfur drifted up into my nostrils as I leaned
over the stove holding the match on a slightly down turned angle and
moved it down into the small cavern of the stove. I then purposely dropped it directly onto one
of the paper balls. It looked
like it was going to ignite, but then it slowly diminished and snuffed out with a small telltale wisp of smoke,
leaving the interior of the stove once more in virtual darkness. I repeated
this procedure three more times, positioning each successive match into a
different local within the stove bed. Finally, the last match danced brighter
and brighter, illuminated by the additional flame of the burning newsprint. Now the cedar began to bum, the flames licking
along the sharp
edges of the crisscross bed. 7his was followed quickly by the
ever-increasing cracking and popping that is unique to cedar when it is aflame.
Soon the entire assembly was engulfed in flame, its flicking fingers reaching
up into to the room. well above the top of the stove. I quickly replaced the components
of the stovetop and closed the damper to half on the side of the chimney.
My hands were almost numb by now from the persistent cold. I rubbed
them vigorously together trying
to stimulate the circulation, holding
them inches above
the stove. Slowly, a sense of warmth began
to return as the heat
of the fire spread across
the surfaces of the
stove and began to radiate
into the room. Reid and Terry now stood beside
me, all now trying to gain some warmth as the wood stove began to do its job. We added as much wood now as the
stove box could
handle. Reid pushed
the door closed
and returned to the stove edge. Taking another match
from the tin, I moved again to the gas stove. I simultaneously struck
the match across
the stove surface
with my right-hand, while
reaching down and with significant pressure slowly turned
on the valve for the
front burner. I applied
the light match
to the surface
of the burner
and the gas immediately
burst into blue flame. We had filled
the two old steel kettles
with water last fall and left
them sitting on the back
of the stove
in anticipation of our arrival. They were like blocks
of steel, still absolutely frozen
solid. Taking the
largest of these,
I slid it across onto the
lit burner. I then repeated
the whole process
for the second
one as well.
Soon we had all
the hot water we would
need to clean
up the counters and provide
each of us with a refreshingly hat cup of instant chicken
soup.
By this time, we had checked
out the rest
of the cottage. We’d turned
on the sidelights in the living room,
laid the fire in the fireplace and brought out the space
heaters. Within the hour the living room, in spite
of the lack of insulation, was comfortable and the kitchen had reached good
healthy and toasty eighty degrees. We had
now placed our
gear inside the cottage, our foodstuffs in the back
shed and placed
additional space heaters
in each of the two bedrooms
that we planned
to use.
Most of the chill
was now out of the air now that we sat gathered
in front of the fireplace, sitting silently lost in our respective thoughts
looking deep into the flames.
The fire burnt brightly, sending dancing patterns
of flickering light
across the ceiling,
walls and into the
very comers of the room.
The light of day had
now faded replaced
by the black cloak of the
overcast night adding
to the importance of the fire’s
light. The wind had picked
up and it could be heard
roaring unfettered across
the open spaces,
pull and pushing
at the outside structure of the old building. The wooden Studs and the tongue and groove sidings that formed the Old
Girl’s exterior groaned and creaked, as she stood taunt and unyielding against
the onslaught of the winter winds. The smell of the fire permeated the air in
the room with the sweet mixed aromas of burning birch, cedar and maple. We were
at peace, nothing could be more meaningful at this moment, than this sense of being
alone, deep in the heart of nature, yet safe and warm, with only our own
resources to protect us from this cold and desolate winter’s night.
By Gib
Heggtveit
.
