adventure

A Little Help Would Be Nice

/ sfosas0211 / 4 Comments

After telling Thurston we needed to stop spending money, I happened upon a 22-foot Smoker Craft pontoon on Facebook Marketplace at a great price.

It wouldn’t hurt to go look, would it?

Better take a trailer. Just in case.

Of course, it was exactly what we were looking for. The seller asked Thurston how he was at backing a trailer. No worries. He’s a retired farmer. Backing a trailer is second nature.

After backing down what seemed like a quarter mile of narrow, winding, tree-lined trail, we loaded the pontoon onto our way-too-small trailer.

We pumped up the tires, crossed our fingers and headed down the road. The boat was sitting a little crooked, which actually helped because one of the trailer glides was broken and rubbing against a tire. If we could just make it to our friends’ house across town, we’d call it a win.

We made it.

Yesterday, Thurston rented a much bigger trailer for four hours. Plenty of time to transfer the boat, get it home, unload it into the barn for winter and return the rental.

Shouldn’t it be?

Our carefully devised plan involved taking the pontoon to a nearby lake, launching it, and leaving me with the boat while Thurston exchanged trailers. He’d return, we’d take a little joyride, reload the pontoon onto the safe trailer and haul it home.

All within four hours.

On the way, we were laughing about how much effort it had taken the two of us to formulate this plan. I suggested that perhaps we should consider adding a third person to our relationship.

Not for romance. For additional brainpower.

Thurston had checked out the boat launch beforehand, so we knew it wasn’t far. Unfortunately, the GPS took us to the lake but not the launch. After turning an eight-mile trip into a twenty-minute drive, we headed back the other way.

Our next road was closed. Bridge out.

Forty-five minutes into what should have been a ten-minute trip, we finally arrived, with the questionable trailer tires somehow still intact.

We unloaded the pontoon, and I prepared to wait at the dock. I’d swapped phones with Thurston because mine was nearly dead. Again. As usual.

Almost immediately, another boater needed the ramp, so I decided to motor out a little way and enjoy the beautiful afternoon. Wish I had at least grabbed some sunglasses.

I put the boat in neutral, shut off the motor and even pulled the key to make sure I wouldn’t accidentally run down the battery.

Pretty proud of myself.

Nearly an hour later, I’d drifted considerably farther into the lake. Time to start the motor and head back.

I turned the key.

Nothing.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

The fuel gauge moved when I turned the key, so I knew there was some electrical power. Maybe there was a trick to starting it. A button? A special throttle position?

I moved the throttle up and down, searching for that sweet spot.

Nothing.

There I sat, alone in the middle of a good-sized lake, in a 22-foot pontoon. I hadn’t just forgotten to grab my sunglasses; I had no ID, no ownership papers, no proof of insurance, no life jackets and, worst of all, no paddle.

Thank goodness for Thurston’s phone, which still had 25% battery.

He was just pulling into the parking lot when I called him. Thankfully, he had my phone charging in the truck. It took some convincing before he believed I wasn’t joking.

“Let me think, and I’ll call you back.”

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking on our four-hour trailer rental. Sitting in the middle of the lake waiting for someone to rescue me wasn’t going to get that trailer returned on time.

Being the resourceful woman I am, I began searching the boat for something I could use as a paddle.

The only thing I could find was the plastic battery cover.

Basically, a glorified Tupperware lid.

Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I stretched out on my belly across the front of the pontoon, hung over the edge and started paddling.

Once I got the boat moving, I was afraid to stop and lose my momentum. I could see Thurston standing on the distant dock and one fishing boat on the other side of the lake.

Neither appeared particularly concerned about my situation.

So I paddled.

And paddled.

Occasionally, I’d lift my head to check my progress. I was making headway. At this rate, I figured I’d reach shore by nightfall.

I kept a death grip on that plastic lid. If it slipped out of my hands, I was really going to be in trouble.

After about twenty minutes of paddling, I glanced up to discover the fishermen approaching.

They pulled alongside and looked down at me, lying on my belly like a porpoise, paddling a pontoon with a piece of plastic.

Not a smile. Not a chuckle.

“We can tow you in if you want.”

It took everything I had to keep a straight face.

“Sure. That would be great.”

They towed me to the dock, unhooked and went on their way. Neither one cracked a smile or made a joke about what they’d just witnessed.

I don’t know how they managed it.

Thurston climbed aboard, moved the throttle around, turned the key and the motor fired right up without a hiccup.

Just like that.

Gassed after twenty minutes of paddling a 22-foot pontoon with my glorified Tupperware lid, I was speechless.

Somehow, we still managed to get the pontoon home, unload it and return the trailer at five minutes after six. Since we’d picked it up late, nobody seemed to mind.

What should have been an hour’s job had taken us four. Pretty typical for us.

But at least I had a story.

We ended our day with a peaceful backyard fire with friends. Life is good.

Anything to Declare?

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Awanabatch started out as a magical place to visit. A place where I could relax and unwind from the busy pace at home.

Over time, I’ve somehow managed to turn it into another source of stress. I’ve already shared my angst over the waiting list and my overwhelming desire to make sure our guests have the time of their lives. I’ve gotten to the point where I occasionally need a vacation from my vacation.

Thurston is in Batchawana this week with his brother. They went up to work on cabin projects, do some fishing and, supposedly, take the boat out for the winter.

Then he called yesterday to check our calendar.

Maybe they won’t take the boat out after all. Maybe we could go up just one more time.

I should be excited. Fall in Ontario is beautiful, and so are pontoon rides on the river—as long as you’re bundled up.

Unfortunately, I’m still suffering a little PTSD from one particular trip earlier this summer.

After realizing we were going to be short on comfortable beds for our friends, we made a last-minute decision to pull the camper up with us. I was a little nervous about Thurston towing it over the Mackinac Bridge and dealing with traffic.

Turns out that would be the least of my worries.

Having used the camper for other trips this year, I knew it was pretty well stocked. We loaded our clothes and headed out, making our usual stop at Meijer for perishables and alcohol. I grabbed Thurston’s bottle of tequila, but I couldn’t decide what I wanted. Eventually, I bought two smaller bottles—one blueberry vodka and one plain vodka.

I’ve never spent much time studying the fine print on a liquor bottle. Pints, fifths, liters; I know these measurements exist. I just don’t generally involve myself with them. Two little bottles equal one big bottle. That was the extent of my international customs calculations.

As we approached the Canadian checkpoint with our passports and receipts in hand, we chose a line. Immediately, we knew it was the wrong one.

The other lines were clearing at warp speed while ours moved at a snail’s pace. When we finally reached the window, our officer appeared to be new. She asked a million questions and reviewed our passports like she’d never seen one before.

Then she asked about alcohol.

I confidently explained that while I had purchased three bottles, two were small and together were about the equivalent of the bottle of tequila we always bought.

“How many ounces are they?”

Well.

I had no idea. They were in the camper with all the groceries. The receipt didn’t say.

She handed us a yellow slip and directed us to the search lane.

Now Thurston was fuming.

“Why did you buy three bottles? You know two is the limit.”

Because I couldn’t make up my mind. Besides, they were small. We were fine.

I got out of the truck, intending to retrieve the bottles and prove my point.

I never made it.

Three officers and a dog approached the truck.

“Step in front of the vehicle, ma’am.”

I was still remarkably confident. Until the officer emerged from the camper with an armload of partial bottles of alcohol.  Yup – we were hauling a bar on wheels.

Suddenly, the exact size of my blueberry vodka seemed considerably less important.

I’ve said that chemo brain not only affects the patient but also the caregiver. If I’d forgotten about all that alcohol, what else had I forgotten?

Granddaughter Camp. Friends Camp. People brought things. People might have left things. What else did I forget to declare?

They went through the truck, my purse and even our groceries. When one of the officers asked who had packed the camper, Thurston whipped his head around to look at me so fast I’m surprised he didn’t hurt himself.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His deer-in-the-headlights expression said it all. He was innocent. And willing to cooperate fully with authorities.

In a real-life case of good cop, bad cop; one officer was pretty scary while the other seemed to find humor in the situation. Grama inadvertently trying to cross the border with her bar on wheels.

I was far too busy being terrified to appreciate the joke.

Eventually, an officer told us his supervisor had instructed him to send us back to the United States, but he didn’t believe that was necessary.

“Have a seat and we’ll get back to you.”

So, we sat. And waited. Like children sent to the principal’s office; they gave us plenty of time to think about what we had done.

Several dollars and a couple nerve-racking hours later, we were finally allowed to continue into Canada with our camper, groceries and what remained of our dignity. Minus our alcohol. And notified that our little adventure would mean automatic searches on future trips. Apparently, I will be guilty until the search dog declares me innocent.

Which brings me back to Thurston’s phone call.

The boat is still in the water. The fall colors are beautiful. The fishing might be good. There’s still time for one more trip to Awanabatch.

I’ve thought about it.

I’ll go.

But there are conditions.

We can take his truck. We’ll even make that trip to Meijer for groceries; but Thurston will be in charge of buying the alcohol.

And the camper stays home.

Yes – Thurston has proven that he can successfully tow it. Sadly, it seems that I can’t be trusted to remember what I put in it.

Just to Clarify

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Readers have spoken.  Apparently, I’ve confused some of you. 

Sometimes I refer to Awanabatch and sometimes I refer to Batchawana. So, before we go any further, perhaps I should explain.   

Awanabatch is the name Thurston’s grandfather gave the family camp – a simple play on its location – Batchawana Bay. 

The old boathouse has clearly seen better days.

Easily found on a google map, the property sits near where the Batchawana River meets Lake Superior.

In person, it’s marked by a ramshackle little old boathouse clearly displaying the family-given name of Awanabatch.  I’m not sure whether the boards are missing due to age or if they were strategically removed by teenaged boys to spy on girls without being caught. 

Currently a storage area for broken lawn furniture and deflated beach toys, it’s seen better days.  Still, the family can’t decide what to do with the old structure. Fix it? Tear it down? Turn it into a screen house?

Chad and I have spent considerable time coming up with options.  We’ve even incorporated the old wooden boat in of the remodel ideas. Unfortunately, neither one of us gets a vote.

There may have been a time, many years ago, when someone with considerably more authority than the family expressed an opinion on the matter.

Apparently, we weren’t ready to decide then either.

Twenty years later, it still stands.  With nine people making the decision, my money is on the boathouse standing for twenty more years. It’s probably eligible for historic landmark status by now.

Attached to the corner is the platform for the aging rope swing.  Still capable of holding two hundred pounds or more, it presents a challenge that most people can’t resist – and another opportunity for the rest of us to question their judgment. 

Just one of the ideas Chad and I have for the boathouse reno.

Eagles and loons are common sights from our viewpoint.  Recently, family members even spotted a moose. Occasionally, you see a little more wildlife than you bargained for.

Some sightings are probably best left out of print. 

Others have become something of a local tradition.    

Over the years, the mouth of the river has gotten shallow, with rock piles, sandbars and sunken trees creating some pretty good fishing.  Twenty-inch smallmouth bass aren’t unheard of. 

Rock piles and sunken logs, however, aren’t the only things you want to avoid at the mouth of the river. 

Opposite our property, where the river meets the lake, sits another beautiful property.  Seemingly owned by the same family for many years, it has a tradition of its own.  For as long as Thurston and his family can remember, individuals have enjoyed a little steam, followed by a naked run into Lake Superior.

Some traditions really do stand the test of time. Thurston’s generation remembers the same gentleman making that run when they were all considerably younger. Apparently, they’ve all aged right along with Awanabatch. 

I have to say that at this point in my life, Thurston is the only old man I really need to see naked. 

We have our traditions; the nudie can have his.

My problem is with our boat captain. 

Thurston tends to fish considerably closer to their shoreline than I consider necessary. Not only does the proximity make casting difficult, it’s hard to concentrate on your bait when you’re also keeping one eye out for a naked man.   

At least there’s usually some warning that they’re there. They seem to enjoy their steam accompanied by opera.

Loud opera. 

Whether it’s intended to warn off would-be lookers or simply enhance the experience, I can’t say. 

This year the fish have done a pretty good job at eluding us.  Thankfully, so have the nudies.

For annual visitors to Awanabatch, the nudies with their opera drifting across the river are as much a part of the tradition as the old boathouse, the rope swing, and the fishing. 

Batchawana is the place you’ll find on the map.

Awanabatch is everything that comes with it.

Self-Appointed Activity Director

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

If regular maintenance concerns, family differences, scheduling and trespassers of all species aren’t enough to worry about, I’ve created another problem for myself. Somewhere along the way, I appointed myself Activity Director, a position no one asked me to fill. I find myself feeling responsible for making sure everyone has the time of their life.

We all know that a great time comes from the perfect blend of where you are and who you are with. Dealing with the occasional jabs about not being invited and weighing our options when trying to put together a group that will mesh well is a thing. The label on the pontoon says eight people and 1,500 pounds, but we take that merely as a suggestion. The dining table in the upper cabin seats 14, so that’s where we draw the hard line.

No matter who visits us, I like to operate under three rules. First, no one does anything they don’t want to. Secondly, time permitting, everyone gets to do the one thing they hoped to do while here. Thirdly, everyone chips in. There are no free rides.

I learned early on that as much as I like playing hostess and cooking, good friends want to pitch in. Each friend’s trip comes complete with an Excel spreadsheet detailing who’s bringing what for which night. Some administrative duties are hard to walk away from.

Thurston and I make breakfast. Biscuits and gravy, fried potatoes, blueberry pancakes, apple fritter French toast and scrambled eggs are just a few of our favorites on the menu.

Evening meals are divided up and, most importantly, if you cook, you clean. You can dirty every dish we have if you don’t mind washing them. We have finally convinced Thurston that paper plates are the only way to go with a large group and no dishwasher. Some guests cook from scratch and some shop at Costco, but we’ve never had a bad meal. If you go hungry, it’s your own fault.

My job as Activity Director was considerably easier before grandchildren entered the picture.

Inviting our grown children to vacation with our friends was easy in the beginning. If you haven’t let your hair down with your grown children, you are really missing out. It gives everyone a whole new appreciation for each other.

One year, our friend brought an alcoholic version of root beer that Thurston’s daughter took right to. Next thing we knew, she was declaring her love for her dad, adding that she never knew he was so much fun. The morning after, however, wasn’t as cheery.

Somewhere along the way, late nights, crazy laughter and our own version of dizzy bat on the beach have given way to diapers, sippy cups and puff snacks.

While we love watching our grandchildren’s every move, we highly doubt toddler-watching for hours on end would be high on our friends’ bucket lists. Nor would waiting until 2 p.m. each day for the stars to align and make a boat ride possible.

Rather than gather at the big table for cards or games, we currently enjoy evenings out by the fire so that our laughter doesn’t wake the children from their much-needed sleep.

So, these days, family trips tend to be family trips and friend trips are planned separately. Either way, the planner in me still feels the pressure to make sure everyone enjoys being there.

It’s always fun to see guests’ reactions the first time they come. I secretly hope they feel the same magic we do. As much as we love it, there are still some who would prefer a week at a nice resort. That’s fine; fewer people to worry about.

On our most recent trip, we invited a couple for their first visit. My role as Activity Director, sometimes means Cruise Director too. I decided they needed to see the sandstone rocks and the underground road to the lost city. I’m sure you know I had built it up pretty good by this point.

We layered up our clothing, overloaded the pontoon and headed out around the island. Convinced I knew where it was, we kept going. And going. The waves got higher as we went.

It wasn’t long before Thurston was hinting that maybe we should try again on their next visit—code for, “This is a bad idea.”

I responded with my own code: “We’re not going back until we’ve accomplished our objective.”

Eventually, common sense – or Thurston – won out, and we turned around before finding the rocks.  Everyone else seemed perfectly capable of handling the disappointment. The Cruise Director may have pouted a little. Apparently, toddlers aren’t the only ones who struggle when things don’t go according to plan.

Our boat captain tends to believe safety should come before entertainment. I’m more of a “what’s the worst that could happen?” person. Lately, life has been answering that question a little too often.

Thurston can sit back and replay memories of his childhood and those made here with his own children. Meanwhile, I’m scanning the crowd with one question running through my head:

Is everyone having a great time?

Maybe that’s one of the things I’m still learning. I can invite the people, plan and pack the food, organize a boat ride and even insist we keep going long after Thurston has decided it’s a bad idea. What I can’t do is guarantee anyone the time of their life.

Maybe it’s time to let that job go in retirement too. Besides, our friends may remember the morning we couldn’t find the rocks longer than they would have remembered the rocks. I may retire as Activity Director, but I’m keeping the spreadsheet. It tells everyone what we need. What they bring because it just wouldn’t be vacation without it is entirely up to them.

Still Exploring

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Thurston and I just returned home after 10 days in Alaska.  Every breathtaking view reminded us that we already have a place that stirs the same sense of wonder.  Awanabatch isn’t ours alone, but every visit lets us unplug from the rest of the world.  It feels like returning to a place that’s become part of who we are.    

In Alaska we were two of more than 4,700 people on a cruise ship. At Awanabatch, we can spend an afternoon without seeing another soul. Somewhere between the first verse of Gordon Lightfoot’s The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and the last, I’m no longer riding in a pontoon. I’m a weary fur trader crossing these same waters, wondering what waits beyond the next point.   

One of the best things about Awanabatch is that it sits at the doorstep of adventure. From the dock, we can head in any direction.  Up the river or across Lake Superior; but for reasons none of us can explain, the family has always spent most of its time exploring the north side of Batchawana Island.

Looking to expand my explorer fantasy, I convinced Thurston to take a walk on the wild  side – of the Island.  It was time to see what was around the next point.   

It was there that we were welcomed by a pair of eagles perched high up in the trees.  Then a unique rock formation on the island’s edge that teased us by looking like a bear.  It wasn’t, but it drew us in even closer to get a better look.  From there, we could see a tiny waterfall trickling into the Lake. 

We soon found ourselves in very shallow water.  Beneath us, large boulders as large as cars began to show through the cool, clear blue water. Creating what appears to look like a long-lost road to a land now covered by water.  Of course, that all might just be my imagination, but that’s what comes to mind when you see it.

Carefully making our way through the shallow area, we started to see the rock formations changing to a variegated floor of red and white sand stones.  Huge slabs of colorful rock.  I climbed out just so I could run my hand across what looked like giant pieces of pumice.  Even more, I couldn’t wait to share this incredible spot with my fellow rock-hound friends. Apparently, I’ve turned into a rock nerd.

Anyone listening to me ramble about the sandstone colors and layers would’ve assumed I’d recently discovered something besides rocks…perhaps a dispensary.  

People who knew Thurston before we met often joke that he’d probably still be on the farm if it weren’t for me. They might be onto something. We’ve wandered through Europe, cruised Alaska and now spend our summers wondering what’s around the next point on Batchawana Island. The funny thing is, after all these adventures, I still get the biggest smile when he says, “Let’s see what’s over there.” 

That’s why we love Awanabatch so much. It still gives us permission to wander.   To imagine.  To believe there’s always something waiting just around the next bend.  We’re still willing to turn the boat toward the unknown instead of heading back to the dock. It makes us feel young. 

Turns out I never needed to be a fur trader to satisfy my urge to explore. I just needed to marry someone willing to drive the boat toward the next bend with me.   Willing to be adventurous. 

Eagle sightings are a regular thing at Awanabatch

Drive Down Memory Lane

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Thurston and I are famous for turning a six-hour drive into a nine-hour adventure.

Although it never changes, I always feel the need to take another picture of the Mighty Mac.

We stop for coffee, lunch, building supplies, groceries and whatever else catches our attention along the way. By the time we reach Canada, we are exhausted from a trip that previous generations would have considered remarkably easy.

Every drive to Awanabatch eventually becomes a trip down memory lane.

As we cruise north in an air-conditioned pickup truck, it’s impossible not to think about Thurston’s grandfather making the 400-mile journey in his car. Was it a Buick? A Packard Eight, or a Ford pickup? A successful attorney from Rochester, Michigan, born in 1878, he traveled north in search of relief from severe allergies and discovered a place that would become part of our family’s story.

Imagine…in the 1930s they weren’t stopping at Weinerlicious or Clyde’s for lunch on the way up. The Mackinac Bridge didn’t open for business until November of 1957. The International Bridge opened on October 31, 1962. The road ended just past the Batchawana River back then as well, so there weren’t a lot of people on Highway 17 if you found yourself in need of fuel or roadside assistance. What feels like a long drive to us would have been a genuine expedition for him – yet somehow, he made the trip that started a legacy that still brings us across the border nearly a century later.

Coffee and muffins are a staple when visiting our friends, this time it was a birthday butter tart.

After purchasing the former logging camp, Grandfather needed the help of locals to clear trees, move buildings and construct the original cabin. The son of one of those helpers remains part of the story. He and his wife became lifelong friends of Thurston’s parents, and no visit is complete without spending time with them. Always sending us home with our favorite – butter tarts.

Grandmother and Goldie, the family’s live-in assistant, would bring young Bonnie (Thurston’s mother) and Henry junior north after school let out and return just before it started again. Their father often stayed until after the first frost. Even then, when the trip could take a day or more depending on ferry schedules, friends would make the trek to join in the fishing, dancing, and summer festivities.

Fast forward a generation to Bonnie bringing up her own family. Heaps of luggage and no car seats. Somehow Thurston’s parents managed to pack five children, a babysitter, the family dog, and everything needed for the vacation into a station wagon. Eventually replacing the luggage roof rack for a trailer for the migration north. Riders in the back seat traveling backwards, inhaling a little car exhaust and other bodily fumes. Brother Steve, always seeming to threaten car sickness to get a ride in the front seat. Dad, never needing to say much when things got out of hand, simply reached into the back seat and placed his hand just above your kneecap—a move we called his “hawker grip.” It was his way of letting you know he’d had enough.

Now we stop at Meijer for gas, groceries, and spirits before crossing the border. After crossing, we stop for fishing licenses and latest lure that promises to catch fish bigger than ever before. Back then, they stopped at Duty Free for their spirits. Planning for cocktails with friends on the deck overlooking the river was a thing even then.

After crossing the border, they filed into Canadian Tire, where the kids all got new shoes for the summer. Followed by a stop at Ontario’s Rone’s Market for groceries, including peameal bacon.

With the driveway just past the mouth of the river, you hope to be greeted by cabin guests waiting on the dock. After a quick honk and wave, you signal your turn into the private drive.

For nearly a century, family and friends have been making that same final turn. The vehicles have changed. The roads have changed. The trip itself has become easier with every generation.

What hasn’t changed is the feeling that comes when the river comes into view and you know you have arrived.

Likewise, saying goodbye never gets easier. After group photos, hugs and promises to see each other again soon, departing guests wave sadly from their cars to those lucky enough to be staying a little longer.

The drive has always been part of the experience. The anticipation on the way up. The stories that are born in route. The reluctance to leave when it’s over.

Some trips simply take you somewhere. This one brings us to our home away from home.

Trespassers

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

We’ve been given an extraordinary gift, a stretch of Lake Superior shoreline on the Canadian side. A place so special that most people only get to visit. Which, apparently, also makes it irresistible.  It’s a delicate balance of being friendly or neighborly and protecting what’s yours.  Especially when people know we are Americans and there isn’t always someone on the property.  You don’t want to overreact, but you also don’t want to find your place has been “borrowed” when you next show up.    

Trespassers have always been part of the story, and for some in the family, a real source of stress.  Yes, people can legally walk the beach and swim, but they aren’t welcome to use the property as if it were an extension of the neighboring public park.  Thurston, for one, has taken this personally. 

In recent years, he’s seen to it that strategically placed signs dot the landscape – gentle but firm reminders that this is, in fact, private land. As you enter the property, a large private property sign greets you. You would think that might be enough to stop people from heading down the long single-lane drive to the cabins. But every so often, someone pulls in anyway—just curious, they say. Or hopeful. “Could we pay to camp here, just for the night?” Or my personal favorite: “Can we just cross over here to get over there?” Well… no. Because that’s private property too.

In effort to keep a clean shoreline, a local establishment recently started providing doggy waste bags.  Thoughtful gesture – until people began filling the bags and tossing them into our woods.  Which raises an important question: if you’re going to throw it into the bushes anyway, why use the bag?  At this point, we’re considering new signage.  Something along the lines of: Save the bag.  Send the dog to the woods.  The bears won’t mind.    

Those on foot are one thing but those of the 4-wheel variety are another.  The sound of 4-wheelers is sure to put everyone on alert.  And one evening, it pretty much ruined what was supposed to be our attempt at a romantic beach night.  The beach side is usually too windy for a fire, but on this rare, calm evening, we made multiple trips back and forth – chairs, wood, blankets, beverages – everything we needed for a perfect evening. 

We hadn’t even poured our first drink before we heard it.  Not the crackle of the fire, but the low hum of engines.  I told myself they were going to the public beach.  They were not.  They turned and headed straight toward us.  Thurston took off like a rocket.  Meanwhile, I stayed behind, mentally preparing to dial 911 for help and wondering – does 911 even work in Canada? 

There were only a few of them, but at that moment, it felt like a parade. My heart was pounding. Thurston—who is very much a lover, not a fighter—was suddenly prepared to defend the shoreline. They pulled up, shut off their machines, and explained.  Fireworks. In August. Apparently, their Canada Day celebration in July had been rained out… and this was the rescheduled event. Expecting not only to drive across our property with their quads and trailers but to shoot the fireworks off our point. They assured us they’d been doing this for over twenty years and had permission from the owner.  Which might have carried more weight… if that owner hadn’t passed away in 2018.

After a fairly-direct conversation about how this sort of thing might have been better handled — perhaps by stopping in during daylight hours and asking permission —we reached a compromise.

They could pass. One last time. As it turned out, the only fireworks that night were the ones in the sky.  They were amazing.  Our romantic beach evening? Slightly less spark. But hope springs eternal. Maybe this will be the year.

Stay tuned.