The Serial: Far From the Rowan Tree Day 63

He took the newspaper down to the edge of the lake and came back with it soaking wet. He wrapped the fish in the wet paper and made five parcels

He took another bottle from the crate, opened it in the same way and handed it to Ronald. Stevannuk was the man who had bought the lake a couple of years back and then sold it to Empire Real Estate. He had a house in Edmonton but in the summer he and his wife came out here to live.

“Tanya,” he called through the screen door, “the Real Estate folk.” She came out rather reluctantly, I thought, to speak to us – a gaunt thin women with eyes that had known hardship.

“You folks going back tonight?” she asked after the initial introductions.

“We’re staying for the weekend,” Ronald replied. “We’ve got a tent with us. Where would be best to pitch it?”

“Anywhere you like!” Stevannuk answered, spreading out his arms. “Better in the woods at the back than down at the waterfront. It’s warmer. Mighty cold wind comes up from that lake sometimes.”

Respect

“Any bears around?” Ronald asked. “Haven’t seen any for the longest time,” he replied. “But that ain’t to say one mightn’t come snuffling around. You gotta gun?” “Nope,” said Ronald.

By this time Tanya had already disappeared back into the house. “Wait here, I’ll git you one. You can have it for the summer.”

Stevannuk got up off the wooden box, straightened himself painfully and followed Tanya. It wasn’t long till he came back out again carrying an old blunderbuss and handed it to Ronald.

“Already primed and ready to blast. Shouldn’t need it but you sure never can tell,” he said.

We found a clearing in the primaeval forest that lay behind the lake. It was a good place to pitch our tent being not far from the big house but out of sight of it. All around us were scrub birches, poplars and fir trees.

Before Ronald did anything else he unloaded the blunderbuss. He had always had a healthy respect for guns.

“I’ll keep the ammunition by me. I’ll soon load it if I need to.”

The boys were excited and helped their dad erect the tent, vigorously knocking in the tent pegs. We were quite comfortable that first night as we were sheltered from the wind that sprung up from the loch.

We had brought plenty of blankets, although it was officially summer and hot during the day, it could still be cold at night.

Sometimes, later on in the season, it felt as if the night wind came straight from the Arctic as it probably did.

Eventually all the children fell asleep, Mahri in her pram within the tent as it kept her off the cold ground.

Once they were all asleep Ronald and I crawled out into the night. Only a thin sliver of moon shone in the black watersilk sky.

Delightful

We stood on the edge of the trees and looked out towards the lake dimly discernible in the darkness. I rubbed my eyes. Were they playing tricks? Tiny flickerings of light appeared, disappeared. “Ron, am I seeing things? Tiny flecks of red light?” “I see them too – must be fireflies – didn’t know we would get them here.”

Next morning I rose to an even more delightful surprise. Not far from the tent a clump of wild flowers were in bloom. I went closer to admire them and stood spellbound.

Beside one of the blossoms, suspended in air, a humming bird was sipping nectar. I couldn’t imagine anything more exquisite or more aerodynamically marvellous.

At times this minute bird seemed to be capable of standing still in the air, at others flying backwards with apparent ease. I hadn’t expected to see humming birds so far north.

That first Saturday we wondered if anyone would be interested in lake side lots so far off the beaten track. We waited apprehensively. Empire Real Estate had done its advertising well.

A surprising number of families in Pontiacs and Chevrolets with pitted windows and dented doors drove in – the women replete with picnic baskets – the men with axes for chopping firewood. It was obvious they were going to stay for the day. One or two families were genuinely interested in the lots that had been marked out at the edge of the lake – some of the trees had been cleared from these lots but not all as everyone wanted a rustic appearance.

By evening, as the roar of cars rumbled into the distance, things looked hopeful for a sale or two. Ronald looked relieved and happy.

“Lets go fishing boys,” he said, “catch something for the tea.”

He had brought his fishing rod and made three simple ones up for the boys from poplar wands he had cut from the forest, string and hooks brought from home, foreseeing such an eventuality.

Excitement

Much to my surprise they all came back with fish. Wee Ronnie was jumping up and down with excitement.

“Me caught fish, me caught fish,” he repeated excitedly. It was quite a big one too. Ronald remarked on how easy they were to catch.

“They’re hungry,” he said. “Either that or they are completely unaware of the dangers of men.”

I had brought one or two pans to cook in over a brushwood fire but no frying pan.

“How will I cook them?” I said. Ronald came up with a bright idea.

“All these newspapers I’ve brought to read – I’ll use some of the pages for cooking the fish in. I learned how to do it while camping in my boy scout days.”

He took the newspaper down to the edge of the lake and came back with it soaking wet. He wrapped the fish in the wet newspaper and made five neat parcels.

The boys in the meantime had been gathering sticks for a fire.

There was no shortage of burnable wood around. Soon the fire was blazing.

When the flames died down a bit Ronald eased the fish packets into the red embers. “When the paper dries they’re ready,” he said. In what seemed a remarkably short time we dragged them out of the fire with long sticks and left them to cool until they were fit to handle.

They were the sweetest fish I had ever tasted.

(More tomorrow.)