The last time I attended the boat show, I ended up buying a boat.  So I have been reticent to return ever since.  I know what you’re thinking – isn’t that a reasonable thing to be doing at a boat show?  Well, my darling wife would certainly agree.

For me a boat show is more about admiring and dreaming.  I see a speedboat, and my mind drifts off.  Suddenly I am James Bond, racing around the bay after some evil mastermind – with a bevy of bikini clad ladies lounging in the bow seats, of course.  When I see a sailboat, I imagine myself hiked out, bearing down on the finish line in pursuit of America’s Cup.  Down one aisle I happen upon a sleek jet boat, and I zone out.  I am dressed in leather hood and goggles, skipping across the lake, out to break all the speed records.  I come across a beautiful yacht, and I am suddenly the millionaire skipper.  I ask daft questions like: “What does the gas cost to run this thing?” – A query which immediately clues in the perceptive sales representative that I am indeed not a millionaire, nor a potential millionaire’s yacht candidate.

When a smooth-talking sales person sees me staring dreamily at his runabout and approaches, I ask a few inane questions, take a handful of brochures and a tidy business card, tell him that I want to check out the rest of the show before returning to make the purchase, and then make my escape, making a mental note of the area of the show to avoid for the rest of my visit.

My wife, on the other hand, ignores all the fancy vessels, sleek watercraft, lightweight canoes and polished wooden rowboats, she even ignores me until she comes across a comfy, practical pontoon boat, and says: “This is exactly what we need.”  The sales rep moves in.  No matter how many useless excuses I throw out there to ward him off, I know I’ve lost the battle before it has even begun.

We can’t afford it!  “Yes,” says my spouse, “the payments are really quite doable, if we pay monthly for 50 years.”  I’ll be dead by then!  “Good, then I can pay it off with your life insurance.”  It doesn’t match my truck.  “Yes it does, silver truck – silver pontoons.”  Our humble cottage dock might be too small.  “No worries,” counters my problem-solving mate: “New docks are in aisle 1.”  Hmmm, (I imagine the cost and work involved with that).  On second thought, I think it will fit!  She takes this as a yes.  We buy the boat.

It is a difference in shopping philosophy, really.  My wife likes to buy things and then tell me how much she saved.  I like to not buy things, and then tell her how much I saved.  If I go to a farmer’s market, I am able to walk around, booth to booth, display to display, checking out the wares, squeezing the tomatoes, admiring the crafts, and easily leave empty handed.  Not so my wife – she would think it a supreme failure if she didn’t have her arms full of bags upon departure.  She sees value in all sorts of trinkets and gadgets.  I am not a browser.  If I go into a store, it is with a particular purchase in mind.  If my wife gives me a shopping list, I return home with everything on that list, and nothing more.  “Is this all you got?” she will ask incredulously.  “Was there nothing interesting on sale?”

I do have to admit that the pontoon purchase was actually quite prudent.  The boat has proved its worth at the cottage, time and time again.  It is particularly valuable ferrying people and gear back and forth to our island.  The vessel adds extra space when attached to the dock, a comfortable sitting area for lunch or for the revelry of the cocktail hour.  When we zip in the enclosure, the boat becomes a bunkie for extra guests.  Quite often we run up the lake at midday, beaching the boat on the beautiful crescent of sand that rings a bay on our lake’s north shore.  We start a driftwood bonfire and roast hot dogs on willow sticks.  After dinner, on a pleasant summer’s night, we like to head out for an evening cruise.  We tour along the south shore of our lake to do some cottage watching.

Why am I telling you all this, you may be asking.  Well, my wife has been making noises about replacing our aging runabout, the ski boat that is more about fun than the practical pontoon.  She tells me that we should hit the Toronto International Boat Show this weekend, just to have a look.

So, if you see me there, please say hello.  I’ll be the nervous, stuttering fellow that the sale’s people will be ignoring, concentrating instead on my beautiful wife.

I don’t know about you, but whenever I’m doing something active and exciting, I hear the James Bond theme song playing in my head.  You know, like when I’m downhill skiing, the familiar John Barry movie score reverberates in my noggin, so I tuck and race towards the fellow in the one-piece yellow ski suit, ready to bong him with my ski pole.  Surely, dressed like that, he must work for Ernst Stavro Blofeld.

When I’m driving down the winding road to the cottage, I suddenly imagine that my dodge truck is actually an Aston Martin.  I push down the pedal and make squealing tire noises with my mouth as we fish-tale around curves.  My wife, recognizing the signs, wallops me with the rolled up magazine she is reading, and the music inexplicitly stops.

I’m touring up the lake in our boat at a reasonably leisurely pace, when suddenly the music starts, and I push the throttle down, weaving erratically between islands and shoals.  Then, when I’m skiing behind the boat, the same common ditty invades my brain and I slice my one ski sharply through a plume of spray and bear down on a nearby fishing boat, ready to pull my Walther PPK out of my swim trunks.  I’m not fooled, the fellow fishing is undoubtedly an evil agent of Spectre.

I often hear the tune when I’m snorkelling off the point, and it makes me keep a keen eye for Largo and his henchmen, and then I hear it again when I’m looking down at the water from the knoll at swim rock, timid to jump while my kids heckle my indecision – suddenly the music starts in my head, and I launch myself into a graceful swan dive.

What can I say?  I remember seeing my first Bond flick as an impressionable youngster when my family was camping at Pinery Provincial Park on Lake Huron, and my parents took us to see Thunderball at the drive-in theatre near Grand Bend.  For weeks afterward, my siblings and I ran through the sandy dunes pretending to be secret agents.  We had to take turns being Bond, even though the character seemed to fit me best.  In fact, I took to introducing myself as Ross, James Ross, and to having my orange Kool-Aid shaken, not stirred.

My older brother didn’t mind being the evil maniac who wanted to take over the world.  My sister wanted to be Moneypenny, but we thought she was better suited as Klebb, the Russian agent with the stiletto sticking out of her shoe.  (Though we did get in trouble for the taped on bread knife).  My kid brother was perfect as Oddjob, because he was younger and shorter, and has always been, well, odd.  Now, as I sit relaxing on the dock at our cottage, I see my kids playing the same secret agent game, and I wonder if they, too, hear the musical score.

Some of you might think me crazy – hearing theme music in my head.  Others will simply recognize that I am a Bond afficionado.  I’ve seen every Bond film a number of times, read all of Ian Flemings novels as a teenager sitting on the cabin’s front porch, and have, many times, got into the debate over the best Bond actor.  Have I told you that my son is named Sean?

My kids are finished their imaginary Bond game and are off doing something else.  My darling wife is floating around on an air mattress in our little bay, the sun on her back, a good book in her hands.  Unfortunately for her, the James Bond music starts playing in my head.  I slip silently into the water off the end of the dock, and stealthily swim towards her.  I see her as the evil Electra King, here to destroy the serenity of cottage country.  I dive quietly below the surface, and then drive up hard, capsizing her into the lake.  I have rescued the world yet again!

My angry spouse doesn’t seem to appreciate my bravery, however, and the Bond theme is replaced by a certain ringing in my ears. I had saved the world, now who was going to save me?

This may not come as a complete surprise to my regular readers – but my wife is mad at me again.  So infuriated is she, in fact, that she has accused me of being a “fossil.”  Imagine that!  I believe she is just angry because, deep down, she realizes once again, I am right and she is misguided.

The disagreement had sprung from our desire to do a little boating on Lake Muskoka on a particularly pleasant Autumn day, and centred on my love affair with maps versus hers for technology.  I had laid out a bunch of charts and maps in a clutter on the kitchen table.  My wife sees my predilection with printed charts and maps as backwards, thus the fossil reference. Not so, I argue, in such a pursuit I consider myself a traditionalist, a purist, and very much in style – for isn’t retro ‘in’ at the moment?

I see only the possibilities that maps offer.  I love mulling over them, for journeys both real and imagined – whether it be just a day out with the boat, a week-long canoe trip, or a Sunday afternoon drive through the countryside.  Maps represent the dreaming part of travel, they transport you to the place that you intend to visit, and they build anticipation.  I can look at them all day, earnestly studying the names of lakes, rivers, towns and villages, tracing the course of obscure waterways, checking elevations, and issuing small, profound “Aha’s,” while nodding my head solemnly.

My wife had bought me a neat little computer tablet for my birthday, and it was her wish that I would use the thing for navigating when out on the boat, as opposed to using my old charts.  In this way of thinking she is not alone, a good number of people think that the good old paper charts and maps are pointless nowadays, both redundant and burdensome.  Admittedly, the new technologies, with their electronic charts and GPS positioning information, can be of great help to recreational boaters.  They provide a simple and inexpensive alternative to the chart in the zip-lock baggie.  Still, I’m neither convinced or converted.The fact is, technology has already invaded our family road trips – do I really want it to take over my afternoon boating as well?  In our car we have one of those in-dash GPS devices where you feel like you are beholden to a talking computer lady with a vaguely sounding British accent. “Turn left here,” she commands in a snotty tone, and then, when you decide to go straight instead, she hits you with a haughty “Recalculating,” and you feel instantly very bad and apologetic for disobeying her.

I will admit that there’s something satisfying about watching the computerized version of my vehicle on the little screen as it inches closer to our destination.   I weave back and forth on the highway to see if my computerized car on the display follows suit.  I’m not at all sure if the digital lake charts feature an image of me behind the wheel of my runabout on a screen, in sunglasses with my unruly hair blowing in the wind – maybe I’ll have to give it a try to find out.  Anyway – I’m getting off-course here.

My darling spouse’s idea of an enjoyable drive doesn’t involve squinting at the miniature fonts or messing with the accordion folds of maps, while I yell out from behind the wheel: “We just passed a sign for Highway 13. Do you see it anywhere on there?” I poke a finger towards the bunched map lying on her lap.  She, in turn, holds the map up in front of my face as I’m whizzing down the busy road, pointing out the place she thinks we are, somewhere on Baffin Island, it would appear.

No, she prefers a GPS.  She likes the ease of it, and takes comfort in thinking that the British lady knows our Canadian topography more than we do and has us on the best route.  I would argue that a road trip is a poorer experience when using a navigation app.  With a map, you can trace your route, and you can decide for yourself where you want to go. “We are a team,” I try to convince my wife, “driver and navigator, solving the problems and conquering the challenges together.”  She seems, however, to prefer the GPS to me, something that she says eliminates travel stress, and doesn’t add to it.

I lean over my nautical charts, making note of all the buoys and markers we will pass on today’s outing.  I also save to memory the hazards, water depths and obstructions we might face.  I debate with myself over the route – “should we go this side of the big island, or that side?”  I decide on the south side, where a gaggle of fair maidens had been sitting out in bikinis sun tanning during a previous excursion – see if a GPS accounts for that!

“Are we going to go today or not?” my wife protests.

I fold up the charts and maps … and then I attempt to fold them a second time.  They never seem to arrange themselves quite the same way again.  With a sigh, I push the origami aside, grab my tablet and head for the boat, thinking, life is meant to be a journey and an adventure.  May you chart the proper course, with or without the aid of the woman with the British accent, but always heeding the wishes of the one lady who really counts!

“To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.”- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I drive along one of the pretty meandering backroads of Cottage Country through the warm enchantment of a sunny afternoon, passing through rock-cuts of pink granite, dipping down through valley bottoms and alongside leaden lakes now quiet after the summer rush.  The road flings itself around the shoulders of hills, dips and rises, and carries on through a quiet forest.  I drive in solitude, thinking that here, in Autumn, I have this roadway all to myself.

The road crosses a bridge, climbs a small hill and then straightens along the side of an open valley.  I am surprised to see a tour bus pulled over where the shoulder widens, and a group of people standing gaping off across the wide expanse.  They have their cameras out and arrange themselves in small groups taking photos, with the far hillside as a backdrop.  At first I wonder what they see, and slow to look for a moose or bear.  I see nothing but a valley and distant knoll.

I slowly manoeuver around them, shake my head and carry on, a little annoyed that this herd of tourists has invaded by quiet excursion.  The road climbs a little higher and then snakes through a wide meadow.  Suddenly, I see it.  The late afternoon sun throws its enriching light over the hillside.  An explosion of colour; vivid reds and vibrant oranges, mixed with golds, greens, burgundies and yellows, overpowers the senses.

This kaleidoscopic display butts up against a rocky escarpment, and sweeps down to the narrow bay of a Muskoka lake.  Here the colours are mirrored in the shimmering royal blue of the water.  It is like a painting.  The view is awe-inspiring.  I pull off to the side and grab my camera.  The bus chugs past and I see smiling faces turned my way, much nicer than the slightly annoyed look I had so recently given them.  I wave, a salute, and a thank you for helping me to see.

Sometimes we can get a little complacent about the beauty of the world around us.  The charm and wildness of our surroundings becomes so commonplace that we lose our ability to see. We would rather find the spectacular when we go looking for it, in the far-away places we visit, but we neglect it right under our noses.

I am on my way to the cottage.  It is time to close the place for winter.  I had set out on my journey in kind of a sullen mood, but the big views of rock, blue-green lakes and the resplendent colours of the forest have done their work.  I know when I arrive at the lake and trek up the path to the cabin, I will enjoy the thick, vibrant carpet that cushions my steps.  I will look skyward at the geese flying south.  There will be the wonderful smells and textures of the fall-cured grasses and the slightly decaying odour of fallen leaves. In the evening there will be the smoky smell of the woodstove and the soft glow of the lamp light.   Perhaps the cold, crisp night sky will welcome me with a magnificent display of stars, or even the northern lights.  Muskoka in fall is a beautiful place in the world, as the busload of tourists I passed well knew.

I was not looking forward to this trip to the cottage, but now Autumn has cast its spell, and I am thankful.

Why Leaves Change Colour

Trees turn into an impressive array of colours in autumn as a result of the chlorophyll disappearing from their leaves. Chlorophyll is the pigment in trees that gives leaves their green colour, and it plays a vital role in photosynthesis, a process that turns light energy into food (sugar) for the tree. As winter approaches, photosynthesis stops in deciduous trees because there is not enough available water or light, and chlorophyll disappears from the leaves. As the chlorophyll disappears, the other pigments already in the leaves become visible. Carotenoids, xanthophylls and anthocyanins are responsible for the brilliant yellow, orange, red, purple and crimson colours in the leaves.  Now you know.  I just think it is pretty!

A few blustery days will blow the majority of leaves from the trees where they will decompose and return valuable nutrients to the soil, turning them into humus and other soil components necessary for plants to grow.  So don’t get rid of them at the cottage.  At the very least, rake them into the trees and let them do their work. 

Fall Colour Report:  www.ontariotravel.net/publications/fallcolourreport.pdf

The art of storytelling is taking a hit.  I don’t mean the kind of story that you sit down at your desk and write.  I mean the type of story that you make up as you are driving along the road to the cottage or roll out at the evening cottage bonfire, the tall tale that is spur of the moment, creative, brilliantly laid out, and really, nothing more than a bunch of hooey.

Today we are travelling up to the cottage; my wife and I, her parents and my youngest daughter, discussing and debating various intelligent subjects to pass the time.  Who was it that starred in On Golden Pond?  “I believe it was Henry Fonda and Audrey Hepburn,” I say – a Hepburn faux pas that my darling mother-in-law corrects with the help of Google.  “How long do Snapping turtles live?” is asked by my daughter, after we run across one crossing the road.  (I mean pass by one, not actually run over it!)  “That one has probably been around since the time of the dinosaurs,” I quote from some scientific journal I had recently read.

“Actually,” says the Google expert from the back seat, “It says here that they can live for up to 100 years.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant, about as old as your grandparents, born in the time of the dinosaurs.”

“What kind of shrub is that?” asks my wife, at a picnic stop on the way.

“I believe it’s a hemlock,” says my father-in-law, the polished carpenter, tree and a wood expert – but obviously a complete blank when it comes to bushy shrubs.

“Hmmm,” says my sceptical mother-in-law.  She plays around with her “smart” phone for a while and then proclaims haughtily – “No, actually it’s a young Russian ash.”  She proceeds to rhyme off a full encyclopaedic description of why it’s an ash, why it is in Cottage Country and why my wife’s dad is a buffoon when it comes to leafy plant identification. She even passes around a photo that looks suspiciously like the bush in question.

“This Google guy doesn’t know everything!”  My father-in-law pouts, trying to defend himself, probably wishing it was a poison hemlock plant, so he could put its seeds to good use.

We are getting close to the lake when we are afforded a quick glimpse of a funny little animal running up the embankment and disappearing into the thick forest.  “What was that?” asks my youngest, most impressionable daughter.

“Why my dear – that was a Side-Hill Gouger,” I say, though, admittedly, I really hadn’t seen the mammal at all.  “Their left legs are shorter than their right ones, so they can run very fast on a hillside.”  It doesn’t matter that nobody in the car has heard of this exotic creature, they are elusive and shy.  They are seldom seen by humans – like Big Foot, only much faster across a steep grade.  “Trust me; it was definitely the mysterious Gouger.”

Then I hear my mother-in-law murmur from the back seat, “Let me ask Mr. Google.”

These devices have a way of making average people brilliant, and brilliant people average.  Now, I’m not saying my mother-in-law is just average, something that implies that she is the norm – when she is, in truth, far from normal.  Also, I’m not saying I was brilliant before Google, but I sure pretended that I was.

We have no connection at the cottage, so after I tell some far-fetched story at the bonfire, and my darling in-law challenges my facts, I say, “No, it’s true, google it!”  (In my experience, I have found that by simply saying “No, it is true, Google It,” it instantly makes the statement gospel).

I am hopeful that she will forget about it by the time we depart the cottage and head back home … she never does!  As we drive home from the cottage, at the very spot on the road that we are back “connected,” out comes her phone.  Doh!  She has the memory of an elephant.

Do elephants really have good memories?  I’m not really sure.  Perhaps I’d better google it.

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 black flies 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 adventuresome mammal, he was shocked to find himself under attack.

The beaver charged, and our poor friend was quickly back-peddling.  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 fur-ball 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 tail 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 buck-toothed 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.”

I got attacked by a killer rabbit the other day.  No, no – don’t laugh, I’m being serious here.  It was a dangerous affair.  To make matters worse, it wasn’t even a three foot hare that put the run on me, but a 5 inch baby – what my kids would call a cute, little bunny.  It was like a snippet from a Monty Python skit. I was completely taken off guard.

I was in my office, sitting at my desk, staring at a blank computer screen, pretending to be at work, when out of my window I saw a small, baby rabbit skitter past, in a quick hop scurry.  Seconds later the cute little gaffer was followed by a domestic cat, hot in pursuit, in a predator kind of way.  I bolted from my chair and made for the front door, screaming at the cat as I bounded down the front stairs and out onto the lawn.

Both baby bunny and feline attacker stopped and stared.  I stopped and stared back.  Then the cat took off in fear, and the tiny rabbit attacked.  He hopped towards me in a threatening way, chirping unkindly, and gnashing his front teeth.  What an ungrateful two-eared fur ball, I was thinking, as little Thumper had at my pant leg.  I shook him loose and returned to the house, as the vicious bunny pranced around menacingly in a victorious war dance.  “The pussy cat can have you next time,” I yelled over my shoulder, then slammed the door.

I’m not surprised there are baby bunnies about.  We had seen our first adult rabbit about our Muskoka home on Easter morning, of all days.  No, she was not carrying a goody basket – but apparently she was moving in.  Then there came another, and another and another – until soon five hares could be seen at any given time.  I felt I had fallen into the literary world of Watership Down.  They seemed to have taken up residence under our back deck, a whole waskly wabbit warren of them.

My wife and kids think their cute.  I find the situation a bit more disconcerting.  “I might be splitting hares here,” I tell my wife, “but you do know what a half dozen rabbits soon leads to, don’t you?  A dozen rabbits!  Then, there goes your garden.”

My always optimistic wife predicts that it will only be our dandelion crop that suffers by the rabbits’ presence.  For now anyway, they do seem to be concentrating on our lawn and not on the garden boxes – but the yellow, flowering weed does not seem to be disappearing at all.

I had read enough of those Beatrix Potter tales as a youngster to know that Peter Rabbit will soon become my nemesis – and I’ll be taking on the role of Farmer McGregor.  And nobody cheers for Mr. McGregor!  And, everybody just makes fun of Elmer Fudd.

Epilogue to my bunny tail – or is that a Lucky Rabbit Foot-note to my story?  I am not often proven right when it comes to debating things with my darling spouse, I’ll admit to that, but in this instance there was wisdom in my words.  The next day I heard a screech from the garden, and heard my wife threatening revenge – the rabbits were treating her garden plot like a salad bar.

“Must have been the ground hog or the ravens,” says my wife defensively, not wanting to ever admit an error in thinking.

Of course, I’m not so easily convinced – “Be vewy vewy quiet, I’m hunting wabbits.”

Rabbit stew anyone?