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by:
Paul Rush
illustration: Stephen MacEachern |
COTTAGE LIFE |
| The
pleasures and perils of seasonal homes |
 All
real cottages have two cardinal traits: surprises and work.
And more often than not, the two are connected.
But before I get into that, I should define a real cottage.
It doesn’t have sufficient insulation or a basement or
an oil furnace or year-round running water. It has a wood stove
or a fireplace and you close it at Thanksgiving and open it
in May with perhaps a single, flying visit over the winter.
A short visit because this is not a house in the woods.
My own cottage—on an island—is
really a cottage/house hybrid. It’s slightly insulated,
has a few double windows and an excellent fireplace. I’ve
lived there in the winter and it was very, very, very cold.
And I was very, very, very dirty. Rolling in snow is not a great
shower substitute.
My family and I rarely spend time
there in the winter and every spring it’s full of surprises—and
I’m not just talking about mice in the sock drawer. Once
I found a dead spruce grouse sprawled on the kitchen floor that
had flown through a window. I also discovered a raccoon in the
attic and last year, some flying squirrels thought they’d
stay in one of the bedrooms. Oh, and the chimney top blew off.
Of course, the water system always
provides ample excitement. My youngest daughter annually dons
hip waders and carries the foot valve out into the lake for
running water. Better her than me. Then we prime the pump with
an everlasting bucket brigade, hooking up the water system once
the pump is running. So far so good, right? Next it’s the
seemingly eternal ritual of walking around the cottage listening
for running water. I’ve heard water gurgling in the walls
where I forgot to drain the shower—and the pipes, of course,
cracked over the winter.
After the water is on and all
the repairs finished I can now relax and spend a few days trying
to get the hot water heater to actually heat. Some people, even
at the cottage, like to be clean.
Then there’s the tree patrol.
Every winter a few trees fall. More than once I’ve found
a tree perched casually on the cottage roof. But this year the
trees had something special planned for me.
A large oak had snapped and was
resting on the power line four feet from the ground at 45º.
The trunk had split into three sections: the largest was caught
about 10 feet above the power line in a white oak; the middle
section rested on thin air and the bottom section sat right
on the line.
 Forget
about getting the hot water on—the real puzzle now was
to remove the tree without losing power while saying alive.
My son-in-law Philip and I harnessed
a long stepladder up to the middle section, about 12 feet up
and held it in place with some rope. I carried the chainsaw
up the ladder and lopped off a section. To my surprise it fell
as planned. What next?
After a lengthy debate, we decided
that attacking the biggest section was the best move. We roped
the main section and with great care—and great fear—I
fired up the chainsaw, first cutting punk and then solid oak.
I stood on a makeshift platform and was ready to jump as soon
as the tree started to move. Two thirds of the way through I
felt and heard an ominous crack. I snapped the saw brake on
and jumped.
Now what? Cutting was out of the
question.
Philip gingerly moved out, pulling
the rope down as I put tension on the comealong. It worked like
a charm. Except…
Except the main section didn’t
actually break; instead, it rolled off the white pine, cleared
the line with room to spare and brought the whole tree tumbling
down.
Almost as if we had planned it
that way.
Always a surprise.
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