The Old Log Cabin

 When I paddle along the shore of a lake or river, I always keep an eye out for old cabins. Usually, I can spot them from the water, but the one in the picture was hidden deep in the bush. I found it by luck, on the north shore of Tchentlo Lake while on a canoe trip. This is the story of what happened.

Author and Steve Flawith exploring the old cabin.
Tchentlo Lake, Nation Lakes Canoe Route, BC, Canada.

To escape an incoming storm, my paddling companions and I landed our canoes on a sandy beach. We climbed up the bank, rigged up a tarp, and waited for the storm to pass. Ten minutes later, a few raindrops bounced off the tarp, but that was all. The storm missed us.

We liked the feel of forest around us, so we decided to stay a little longer. Some of us made tea, others took a nap, I went for a walk. 

Not too far from our temporary camp, I noticed an old trail on the forest floor. I began following it. Not an easy task, considering how often it disappeared under the moss, only to reappear when I took a few steps farther into the unknown. The path led me far enough into the forest that I began to wonder if I should go back and get my compass, just in case I got lost. But there was a rise in the terrain, and you know it goes with rises and hills and mountains. I had to see what was on the other side.

Once at the top of the rise, I looked over my shoulder to orient myself. I could still see blue water through the branches of the trees. This puzzled me. At this distance from shore, the sub-boreal forest should have completely shut me in from the lake. "Well," I thought, "at least I won’t get lost. If I come back to this rise, I’ll know where I am." I pressed on.

Soon, I noticed partly decaying stumps sticking up from the ground at regular intervals. An explanation for the semi-openness of the forest began to take shape in my mind. Someone had cut down many of the trees. But why? A few steps later, I saw the cabin. Now I had my answer. The person, or maybe I should say "persons", who had built the cabin had only cut down trees of the right diameter for their purpose. Since they did not damage the trees that were either too small or too crooked, the forest had recovered quickly. As a result, the area around the cabin was more open than the nearby virgin forest, yet it was so well integrated with it that I had almost failed to see the difference.

I returned to my friends and guided them back to the cabin. We pondered over who had built it. How many years ago? Were they trappers or miners? Why had they chosen a spot this far into the bush instead of closer to shore? Had they brought the cast iron stove, now rusty and hidden under the fallen timbers, by canoe, or had they dragged it on a toboggan or a sleigh over the winter ice? Asking the questions seemed to make us appreciate the fortitude of the builders. In the end, though, no clear answers prevailed in our common consciousness.

There was one thing we could not fail to notice—and many of us remarked on it. Nature was slowly reclaiming the cabin. Soon, the logs would be completely gone, and the moss would reach high-enough to cover the cast iron stove. Once that happened, no one would ever again wonder about the people who built this refuge in the wilderness.

I love old cabins. They make me appreciate the temporal nature of my life.

Labrador Tea Bounty

This morning, I was reminiscing over old pictures of the Sayward Forest Canoe Circuit when I came across this one. It is Labrador tea in bloom.


I remember the day I took the shot. Blanche and I were camping at Amor Lake. She was in an exploratory mood, so we went for a stroll along the beach. Before too long, we arrived at the shrub you see in the picture on the right.

Enticed by a hint of perfume floating in the air, we decided we would brew a pot of Labrador tea later on in the day. Careful not to damage the new growth, I plucked a dozen wrinkled old leaves from the base of the stalks. I stuffed them into my shirt pocket.
After I snapped the picture, I bent over a cluster of flowers to take a good whiff. Although I had smelled it many times before, the depth of the tangy perfume surprised me. I stood back, pleased and satisfied with our walk so far.


By now, I was ready to return to camp, but something caught my eye. On one of the clusters, a small reddish beetle dipped its head into the cup of a flower. Suddenly, I saw dozens of the tiny bugs, as if they had just materialized. Each cluster hosted at least one or two. Some of the beetles crept from flower to flower in a funny, robotic fashion. Others stood motionless at the cups, heads buried at the base of the stamens. The shrub was not only giving us a few leaves to make a unique, unforgettable tea, it was also feeding an entire colony of enigmatic little beetles.

Nature always gives us a show.

White Bog Orchid, Writer’s Bloc or Heaven on a Stalk?

White Bog Orchid

The rain batters the window of my study. Bad time for a morning walk, but perfect for editing. I focus on a sentence describing one of the many white bog orchids I saw on the Nation Lakes Canoe Route. This particular one was growing in the meadow surrounding the Tchentlo Hot Springs. Here is what I have written so far: “Take the time to kneel down and smell the flowers on the spike of the white bog orchid, specially in mid-afternoon when they release their spicy perfume.”

The words rekindle memories of the trip. I imagine soaking in one of the pools of the hot springs. Bubbles rise up and touch my skin. Birds tweet in the forest. Monkey flowers, blue asters, and grass of Parnassus show off their blooms . . . but the “spicy perfume of the white bog orchid” does not seem to reach my senses. The description feels aloof, far, unreal. I must be more specific.

Orchids are fragile plants. When I’m lucky enough to find one, I feel it is so perfect, so precious, that I do not dare touch it for fear of breaking its stalk or damaging its bloom. This leaves me with no recollection of its texture and prevents me from using the sense of touch to describe it—which is just as well because I do not want people handling wild orchids just to know how they feel. A visual description is hardly necessary when I have the picture. So I must concentrate on smell.

An orchid’s fragrance is unique. I could never do it justice, but I can try to associate it with familiar smells. I should have done that when I was actually sniffing the flower, but at the time, I was so spellbound by it that I forgot to take notes. Did it really smell spicy? Yes, but with something else, a fruit maybe. What specific spices and fruit am I talking about here? Cinnamon and cloves for sure. The fruit was an orange, but not just any orange. A sweet, plump orange, the kind you only get once or twice a year if you live in Canada, and the smell was not the smell of the flesh, but of the oil in the rind when you peel it off.

Now the collage of memories has more breath. Before I type in the changes, I close my eyes and slide right back into the pool at the hot springs. Tiny bubbles rise in the column of water, so eager to reach the surface, they shimmer. Birds twitter at the edge of the forest. They sound happy, yet subdued, like toddlers playing on a soft carpet. And finally, a warm breeze carries to me the scent of a white bog orchid, a perfect blend of cinnamon and cloves sprinkled over the zest of an orange. For a brief moment, I flirt with heaven.

Lesson from Primary School

Today, my wife and the ladies from her book club meet in our living room to review The Midwife of Venice. Needless to say, I have no intention of staying here while they discuss the literary skills of Roberta Rich. I have at times, been asked to stay and participate. I'm sure I would enjoy the discussion, but I know better. I always answer that I do not wish to intrude. What I really mean, though, is “you would not catch me dead advancing a male opinion anywhere near so much oestrogen.” You know what I mean.
I usually try to leave before the first of them arrives. My usual tactic is to pack my laptop and drive to either the local coffee shop or the library. My official intention is to work on my “stuff”, but what I always end up doing is to read the Globe and Mail and a magazine or two, all the while feeling somewhat flustered at having exiled myself from my own home.
When four o'clock rolls around, I jauntily return to my castle to find it empty of gossip. All the ladies are gone, except for my Queen, who for some reason is always in a particularly good mood. Sometimes, things are better between man and woman when they revert to primary school attitudes. What I mean here is that when all these women invade our living room, Blanche and I abide by “the girls with the girls and the boys with the boys”. It always works.

A little bit of satisfaction

This morning, I printed the second draft of my book. When I transferred the stack of paper from the tray of my printer to my desk, the weight of it surprised me. For a brief moment, it became a tangible recognition of the efforts I have put into the project.
Writing, as with any creative endeavour, can be a lonely process. Until other human beings can hold our book in their hands, we writers must eke out a little bit of satisfaction from wherever or whatever we can, even from an inanimate wad of paper.