Memories of Magical Waters. Gord Deval
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could, “For Christ sake, hold on—where do you think you’re going, man?”
He turned, looked at me quizzically and paused, while as quickly as I could, I caught up to him. More frightened than I have ever been in my life, I said through chattering teeth, “I don’t know what you had in mind, old fellow, but whatever it is, forget it. We have to stay together if we are going to beat this thing.
“You do what you want, Gordon,” he muttered, “but I’m walking back to the cabin. I’ve had it with this shit! Gotta get outta here! Do you read me?”
Grabbing his arm as he turned, I yelled, “Forget it! You’ll never make it. It’s going down below zero and you’re already half-frozen and completely exhausted.” I repeated my words, this time shouting every one.
His eyes were glassy.
“Do you hear me, old buddy! For God’s sake, and yours—and mine and Jamie’s, listen carefully!”
Barely able to talk, he whispered as I still held on to his arm, “Never mind. I’m going—gotta get outta here…”
There were tears in my eyes as I realized what I had to do. I slapped him on the face hard. Once, twice then as he winced and shook his head, once again. He, too, then took a deep breath and placed both arms around me and shook violently for a moment or two before taking another couple of deep breaths then with a tear or two in his own eyes backed off a little and said, “Okay, okay, I’m fine now. What do you have in mind, Deval? We build an igloo or something?”
I knew then that we were all right and would make it out together all right. “Not a bad idea,” I replied, “but I’ve got a much better one.” Continuing quickly, because simply standing still was causing the cold to permeate my inner core, I said, “Listen carefully, please. The ramps and all this water will freeze up solid overnight. We leave the machines right where they are, up on their ramps. They’re both starting and working well, so we will easily be able to drive off when the slush freezes over and get the hell out of here in the morning. Remember where we picked up the trail to here back at Brule?” I asked. Continuing, I said, “There’s a big cottage right there—you probably didn’t see it because it was pretty well buried in snowdrifts. Getting there’s going to be tough slogging, but I know we can make it if we get going and don’t stop. We’ll take turns carrying Jamie.”
I figured that once we got there, we’d find a way to get in, jimmy a window if necessary. Once inside, we would get a fire going in the fireplace, thaw out and hang in until the sun came up the next day. With luck there might even be some food.
That is exactly what we did. After we pried open a boarded window, my buddy crawled through and I passed Jamie through next. There was a stack of firewood buried beneath the snow outside the cottage. A couple of dozen split logs were dug out then tossed through for the big fireplace, matches were located, along with a candle or two, a can of beans and even a can of dog food, all frozen of course. Both were opened with my Swiss Army knife and, without waiting for them to completely thaw by the fire, they were devoured by man and beast.
We had no money with us to leave for the owner, but found a notepad and pencil. An apologetic thank-you note with my name, address, phone number and explanation was written and secured with masking tape on the kitchen cupboard. Although we were utterly exhausted and managed to nod off briefly several times, only Jamie actually slept.
At first light, still soaking wet and not looking forward to the cold trip back to the cabin at Buckshot, we nevertheless struck out for the now tightened-up Lucky Lake. Without further incident and with no problems at all, we got the machines underway and left the lake with only a momentary pause to look back over our shoulders at its ridiculously chewed up surface. It was no longer the magnificent pristine view we had been treated to almost twenty-four hours earlier. We got as far as Brule Lake when a convoy of about fifteen machines, following our now frozen tracks from the day before, were spotted heading towards us. Wisely they had brought blankets and extra, dry clothing. Luckily, there were no permanent ill effects suffered by either Jamie and or ourselves. Now thoroughly bundled up, we drove back along with our escort to the cabin at Birch Lodge.
Several months later I made a special trip to Brule Lake, not just to fish for its plentiful lakers, but hoping that the cottage’s owners would be there so I could thank them personally, pay for the damage to the window sill and recount the story of our escapade. They were wonderful and refused to take any money, even for the beans and dog food, completely understanding the necessity of our actions. Their generosity of spirit is now also part of this particular memory on the frozen water of Lucky Lake.
The first, I’ll refer to as “Good Friday” as it took place on Easter Weekend, traditionally one of the finest fishing weekends for my buddies and me over the years. The days preceding this particular weekend had been blessed with a rising barometer and beautiful weather, a combination that creates an itch under the skin of most fishermen after a winter of freezing weather and ice-fishing outings.
A couple of days earlier, my Uncle Bob, one of my favourite fishing compatriots, phoned to ask if I would like to join him for a couple of hours of fishing on Good Friday morning.
Responding without hesitation, I agreed, and, mentioning Muskoka Lake in particular, I reminded him that the smelts should be running in the river mouth. Often some of the lake’s bigger fish come right into the shallows for a feed while the water is still in the low forties. With most of the lake still ice-covered, the conditions should be just about perfect. He liked the suggestion, but he reminded me of having to be home by mid-afternoon to be with the family. I figured that if we could leave early, then fish till noon hour, we could get home well before three. By taking sandwiches with us, we would eliminate the need to stop anywhere for a bite of lunch.
At that time, I hadn’t done much fishing there before but had heard stories of thirty- and forty-pounders taken out of the big lake. People don’t really talk about it much, trying to keep the great fishing to themselves, I guess. Although I’d been up there a couple of times previously, I had only managed to catch a seven-pound whitefish, but the year before “Good Friday,” about the same time, I told him, I had hooked into the lake’s granddaddy lake trout. The thing just grabbed my plug and swam away rather leisurely, feeling like a Mack truck in low gear. About twenty-five seconds later it simply let go, never once giving me a chance to set the hook. After my speech, he was raring to go.
Good Friday arrived, still with the promise of great weather. We left at our appointed hour of five a.m. and after a three-hour drive to Bracebridge and its famous Santas Village, the car-top aluminum boat was lifted off its rack. We slid it across some remaining crusty snow and launched it into the chilly Muskoka River, littered with chunks of floating, honeycombed ice heading for their destiny downstream at the lake mouth. The frozen flotsam and jetsam, including the odd willow tree carved from the bank by the spring floods and ice floes would swirl around, also clogging the mouth of the river before piling up against the remaining ice canopy covering the lake.
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