Going to the cottage is a relatively new cultural practice. In 1861, it took three days to get to Muskoka from Toronto. The early manifestations of tourism sold Northern Ontario as a wilderness retreat for men interested in hunting and the outdoors, a means of finding their latent barbarism by spending time in the bush. The North was not deemed an appropriate spot for women until the first hotels and lodges were built, and “civilized” society began to seek out the woods. These spaces were marketed as a rest cure, and many of the first lodges were retreats for the tuberculosis ridden and for another relatively recent cultural phenomenon, the tired urbanite. Even though the boat traffic on Lake Joseph can be just as stressful as the routine traffic jams in the city, it seems that everyone now has a piece of lake to call their own. I have never had the privilege of owning a cottage, but have, fortunately, always known people who did. I would love to wax poetic about the trill of the loon by the light of the moon, but the truth is, I don’t know very much about it. I am always very impressed by these things when I experience them but find that most people who have spent their lives in cottages are almost bored by the landscape around them. It’s as if the beauty around them becomes a wallpaper pattern to which they are accustomed. I always feel slightly out of place at someone else’s cottage. The codes of ethics and behaviour vary from cottage to cottage, as do one’s duty as a guest there. Is it wrong that I am dying for a coffee? I always wonder. Invariably, someone brings a laptop and I blush madly when I am caught checking e-mail. Invariably, there are always conversations that I cannot take part in. I have no good advice to offer about bat removal techniques, and I don’t know about how to get the porcupine to stop gnawing the deck. Cottagers seem to have a unique language that only I seem to be unable to grasp. In some families, language is coded and only makes sense to those cottagers who have been initiated. “Did you feed the bear?” is actually cottage-speak for “has the BBQ been safely stowed away?” Imagine my bewilderment. Some of the cottages I have visited are replete with sub zero fridges, chrome-plated kitchens, artfully arranged driftwood, and matching white couches. These cottages seem to be designed to provide the same comfort level as a home in the city; the only apparent difference is that up north, the car has been replaced by the speedboat. Like looking into someone’s refrigerator in order to catch a glimpse of some hidden aspect of their personality, you never really know someone until you have been to their cottage. Other cottages I have frequented have involved washing dishes in Georgian Bay, spending days moving water about in various pails for various reasons, and watching the sunset thicken the pink of the granite shoal. It is in this setting that I was able to muse about the infinite varieties of moss and marsh iris, while gathering wild blueberries, a backbreaking process in which an hour of labour translates into a thimbleful of berries. Most people have closed up their un-winterized cottages by now, and I think that it is much too soon. I can think of no better time to be at a cottage. The season is over, the lake is still and doesn’t echo with the screeches of school children, and the nights are numbingly crisp. If only I had a cottage.
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