A Story from Paul

As a young person, I was always excited to be around water, especially freshwater lakes. So, when I was sent north for my first of seven years of camp life and adventure, I was amazed to discover the rocky shores of the ice-carved lakes of the Canadian Shield. I was captivated. From Algonquin to Georgian Bay, the landscapes, forests, and waterways that inspired an internationally recognized art form also helped form me. The summers I spent at the wonderful northern camp I was so fortunate to attend grounded me in the power of the unique geological character of this breathtaking natural landscape. Hiking, camping, canoeing, exploring, and connecting with this spiritual environment anchored within me a state of calm unmatched by anything I had experienced—or would experience—anywhere else. And there was always the call of the loons. I was aligned. Visits to this natural beauty instilled in me the goal of one day finding and owning a slice of this earthly paradise. Within a few years, summer camping gave way to summer work and time spent in Toronto instead of north of the city. During my later high-school years, a new friend invited me to their cottage in Haliburton, southeast of the Canadian Shield and just below Algonquin Park. It was less than two hours from Toronto, rather than the three or more hours required to reach other locations. When I arrived, I was surprised to find the environment I had come to love. Decades before I travelled past the largest property on the lake’s largest island—which now hosts 25 cottages along its nearly mile-long shoreline—a successful Toronto business owner visited a spiritual retreat that an associate had established at the lodge on the lake. He took his guest and new bride in a small boat to the large island he was about to purchase. The couple from whom I would eventually acquire my cottage dream agreed to purchase the entire northern 1,700-foot section of the island’s shoreline. With only a handshake agreement in place—formalized some 15 years later—they brought the first structure, a 12-by-12-foot cabin, to the island the following year and began their annual summer visits in 1938. Forty years later, the keys were handed to me. The original cabin was kept, but the main cottage had been built in the year of my birth. A guest cabin became the third building in 1964, and after we had married and had children, we added the boathouse in 1993. Several times, we considered expanding the cottage or building a new one elsewhere on the property. Eventually, however, we came to recognize two important aspects of our summer home and two-month weekend retreat. First, the cottage is perfectly positioned to capture the full day. Although the property is well treed, the sun does not dominate it; instead, the trees frame the day from sunrise to sunset. Second, closing the cottage for the winter has reduced the demands on and wear to the buildings. It has enabled us to take a greener, more environmentally conscious approach to their use and has allowed us to focus on other activities and interests. We used the other six or seven months of the year for travel and winter activities such as skiing, figure skating, hockey, music lessons, theatre, and the many offerings of the city. Each summer arrives with the promise of weekend guests, watersports—including excellent fishing—and a quiet, park-like atmosphere during the weekdays. Over the years, the cottage has become a place filled with memories and laughter. In the new century, television and the internet challenged our tradition of game nights. Even though our evenings are now divided almost equally between screen time and games, there are still the night skies: full moons, moonless nights beneath star-covered domes, and the occasional sighting of the northern lights.