bay, hiding out under the boathouse or in the grass and shrubs along the shoreline, a string of little chicks trailing after an attentive mother. This summer, our mergansers are absent.
My dog smelled the problem first. I saw her sitting at the foot of the birch, staring up at the wooden box, tilting her head this way and that and sniffing the air. At first I thought there must be a mother with chicks, and ordered the dog away. Then I smelled the sulfury stench of bad eggs. I carefully climbed the ladder and peered in. Sadly, I found nine eggs in the nest, abandoned and rotting. Either the mother had simply left her eggs or, more likely, she had met an unfortunate end: a fox, wolf, angry loon, or crazed boater. As landlord and owner of the nesting box, I felt partially responsible for the loss.
Build it, and they will come.
We try to help out Mother Nature in little ways. Feeders are hung from tree branches, their seed kept replenished for the songbirds that sing the praises of each new day. Hummingbird stations are kept filled with sweet nectar and hung off the porch. Bat houses are built to attract the night flyers, who in turn keep the mosquito population in check. Nesting boxes are strategically placed on trees along the rocky shoreline. All are kept clean, fresh, sanitized, and in good repair.
At my previous home, a ranch in British Columbia, I built several mountain bluebird nesting boxes and fixed them, according to instructions, five feet from the ground, south-facing, on fence posts. I was proud when a pretty female bluebird took up residence. She started bringing in little sprigs of grass in her delicate beak to make a nest.
I bragged to my wife about my new tenant. I gloated to her about my important position as nature’s aide. That is, until my wife beckoned me outside the following morning. I was horrified to see my wily old barn cat, Charlie, perched on the nesting box roof with a paw raised, ready to swat the unfortunate bird when she departed. I chased the cat away, evicted the little renter for her own good, and removed the box. Domestic cats tend to take full advantage of our generosity towards birds.
As cottagers, we tend to at least think we have a closer connection with nature, and we want to help out in any small way we can. We do things with all good intentions, to the best of our ability, and with all available information. Still, we can fail and discover that nature might have fared better without our intervention.
That is how I felt when I discovered the abandoned eggs. My wise, glass-half-full wife pointed out our successes, and the many young mergansers who began their lives in our little nesting box. Hopefully a talented young merganser mother will take up residence next spring, and when we see that young brood following their mother around the bay, we can be proud.
Time Moves On
I attended my oldest daughter’s Grade 8 graduation during the last week of school. It was one of those bittersweet moments. As she received her diploma, wobbling across the stage in high heels that proved themselves far more difficult than the usual runners or flip-flops, I beamed with a father’s pride. My little girl had grown up.
At the same time, I took in the ceremony with a somewhat heavy heart. Sure she had grown, but how fleeting those childhood days seem now. Was it not just yesterday that I carried her around on my shoulders and bounced her on my knee? She walked in my footsteps. I was her hero and she was my princess — well, no, she was never a princess. Now, she worries that I may embarrass her — and I undoubtedly have by even mentioning her in this space.
Life moves on and you can’t change that.
Time moves on and she has grown up, and for this special night at least, she has traded her jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers for an elegant dress. I looked at her, and it frightened me. She was beautiful. My daughter was no longer a child, she was a woman, and I was in trouble. I looked around me, and I am sure this is a sentiment most of the parents shared when seeing their daughters and sons maturing like this.
When I said that I would like to get her a graduation present, she suggested a cellphone, something that many of her friends have received. I considered it for a moment and then bought her a kayak. I think she was quite pleased with the surprise, and if she is anything like me, she does not really like talking on a phone anyway.
So, 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
