WICK-CLIFF LODGE

As a child, my fantasy life was rich and full and my father helped to fuel my daydreams
by taking us on car trips around the country. As he drove I lay down on the little bed I would
always make between the bump in the middle of the back seat floor and the door. It was
just big enough to fit my Mom and Dad's suitcase and I would put a bed pillow on top of it,
with one for my head and a small blanket if I got cold or wanted privacy.

I would often let my mind wander and watch the telephone poles as they zipped past the window,
following the dip of the wires that connected them. There was a rhythm to the pattern along the highway,
broken only by the odd road here and there. As I watched I was slowly hypnotized into sleep
and another adventure began inside my brain.

Dad was a great one for going off on little drives once we reached our destination. I remember
many times going up long, winding, dirt and gravel roads looking for whatever adventure we could find.
Dad loved to explore new roads and we were always eager to go along for the ride.

On our trips up in northern Canada we found a lot of pretty interesting roads. Sometimes
we would come to the crest of a very steep hill and not be able to see where it went.
It seemed to drop off the edge of the world. Sometimes it was a little scarey because
it would take a sudden curve without warning. Perhaps this is the reason I have such a love
for roller coasters. I love the thrill of anticipating what comes around the next bend or over the next hill.

I always loved our trips up to my Aunt Winnie and Uncle Walter's Fishing and Hunting Lodge on Wickens Lake
outside Dryden, Ontario. It was called WICK-CLIFF Lodge.

I can see myself as a little girl and as a teenager there. There was a big, log cabin lodge with lots of rooms,
an upstairs loft and some family cabins all along the lake and around the corner where they ended
at a rocky point. Right from the first time I remember going there, when I was just a wee thing,
that point was my extra special place. I loved to go barefoot and walk out into the sun-warmed water, on the rocks.

Actually, it was a huge, smooth slab of shale that sat about two inches below the surface of the water
and about thirty-five feet out into it. I loved to feel it’s smooth slippery surface under my feet.
The water splashing across its surface, for who knows how many hundreds of years, had rounded all the rough edges.

Sometimes I would go out there in my bathing suit and just lie down on its warm surface
and slide my body around to see what little creatures I could discover. I can almost feel it now! It felt so good!

My parents have a picture of me at about four years old standing at the spot with my
little dress and sweater on, cuddling my doll P.D. I love that picture!

We went there many times over the years. I remember once going into Dryden to a movie with my brother, Alan
and sister, Helen while my parents went to the Legion with my Aunt and Uncle to visit with old school chums
from my Dad's childhood. We saw, "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" with Jimmy Stewart. That was a big adventure for me.

There was a huge pulp and paper mill in the town that smelled awful and always made me feel queasy.
Thank goodness Uncle Walter’s place was about 18 miles back in the bush on a dirt road, so you couldn’t
smell the paper mill, except on the odd day when the wind was right. On those days I tried hard to breath
only through my mouth so my stomach would stay calm.

You couldn’t go to Uncle Walter’s in the winter by car or truck because the plows didn’t clear those roads and
they had no snow machines back then. Sometimes people would make the trek back there, but that was pretty unusual.

My uncle would go in the early spring by horse and sledge, before the ice melted, and carve huge ice chunks
out of the lake to store in his underground ice house. They would stack layers of ice and sawdust
and this would provide them with ice for the lodge all summer.

Above ground was a smoke house to smoke the fish and wild game they caught or killed. This was right beside
the lake and there was a long trough near it, that my aunt used to fill with corn and seed to feed the geese.

My aunt and uncle always had a great love of nature and found pleasure in the smallest of it's creatures.
Uncle Walter took delight in training the squirrels around the lodge to do simple tricks.
He spent weeks at a time enticing the squirrels with shelled peanuts, until they felt safe in his presence.
Then he would move the peanuts closer and closer, gaining their trust until he had them eating out of his hand.

Eventually, they would climb up his pant leg to his knee and then on to his shoulder for their reward.
With a little perseverance he could even persuade them to come into the lodge. He would prop the wooden screen door
against the little, spring-loaded catch, so there was just enough space for them to squeeze through the door
and come inside where they would again retrieve their nut from his knee. We kids loved to watch,
and then one by one we were allowed to be the one holding the peanut.

Uncle Walter had one trick that really impressed us all. He would put the peanuts in a large glass jar
and stand it on a little mat. The squirrel would come along and knock over the jar, crawling into it
part way, to take one. The squirrel would move a short distance away while Uncle Walter set the jar up
for the next round. He repeated this many times until the squirrel was used to it, then he would rest the lid
on top of the jar. The first few times it would fall, the squirrel would be startled slightly
but after a while he was accustomed to the routine. My Uncle would then screw the lid loosely
onto the top of the jar and watch while the squirrel pushed it over and struggled with it until
he got it open. Over and over and over he would repeat the task until his little feet became
expert at twisting that top where he would collect his peanut.

Sometimes one of us would fasten the lid a little too tightly and the squirrel would have a wrestling match
with the jar. If he got too rough with it, it would roll off the mat and along the concrete driveway.
We would all laugh and the squirrel would retreat into the bush, until someone fixed the jar
and put it back in it's place, ready for the next try.

There was a swing about halfway up the hill that I used to sit on and swing for hours and just watch the geese
fly in to feed. What a beautiful sight that was, especially in the evenings when the sun was low in the sky
and the horizon was a crimson colour. I can still feel the breeze in my face as the swing carried me back and forth
in a rhythmic motion. The ropes were very long with tall logs as posts. Because it was on a hill
and right beside the lake, when I swung out at the front of the pendulum it felt like I was flying.
I couldn’t see the ground, just the lake and the sky above. I would sometimes imagine that I was
one of those geese flying into the sunset over the water.

My Uncle Walter was a bit of a curmudgen. Actually, he tried to make out that he was, but I had him figured out
from the beginning. I was his "Skinny Winnie". Winnie was my aunt’s name, (my Father’s sister).
She never had children. I’m not sure why, but I suspect it was her diabetes that prevented that.
He always said that if he had a little girl he would wish she was just like me. I was a cute little
freckle-faced imp and I guess I wormed my way into his gruff old heart. He used to always sit me
on his knee and play, "Got your nose". I HATED it, cause it hurt like heck, but I loved him dearly,
so I put up with it.

My Aunt Winnie was a sweet lady who was always doing crafts and cooking. I think I got my passion
for creating things with my hands from her and my father’s other sister, Mary.

Aunt Winnie had a severe case of diabetes, but was a fabulous cook. I don’t know how she ever had
the willpower to cook and not be able to eat what she made. She would make huge meals,
but the most memorable were her breakfasts. She would make homemade breads, several kinds, and cut them
into thick slices about 3/4 inch thick. Then she would make toast and french toast out of it.
There would be stacks of pancakes, about six inches tall, some with blueberries, waffles,
maple syrup, fresh wild blueberries, peach and plum preserves, any kind of homemade jam
you could think of, along with the usual bacon, eggs and sausage.

At dinner time she would cook wonderful meals also, with new potatoes, roasts, vegetables and the most
delicious homemade pies made with fresh berries and fruit. She even got me to love fish,
which was a near impossible task. She would make the most wonderful battered fresh Lake Perch and Pickerel.
I’ve never had anything that compared to it since. Makes my mouth water just to think of it.

One summer when we went to visit, my uncle was in a particularly grumpy mood because he hadn’t caught
a single fish and it was well into the summer. He and my Dad and I went out fishing and Dad and I came back
with a bunch of fish. He was so mad he was red-faced, but his luck changed after that.
I was about seventeen or eighteen. I have a picture of me holding the day's catch.
Every time I look at it I have to smile.

I used to love to ride in the bow of the boat and rest my chin on my arms. I could feel the gentle bumping
of the water on the bottom of the boat and feel a light spray on my face. My Dad and Uncle were always amazed
when I fell asleep there, after a day of fishing. I’ve always loved the water.

When we kids would swim off the dock at the water's edge, we would come out and have these huge blood suckers
on our feet. They were sometimes three inches long. They always fascinated me. We would sprinkle salt
on them and watch them shrivel up and then try to pull them off with our fingers.
They sure were slippery and they held on pretty tight.

Eventually my aunt and uncle got too old to run the camp and sold the operation to someone else.
They loved it there so much though, that they built a beautiful log home with tons of windows
at the top of the hill, overlooking it all. They spent many summers there. I think the last time
I went was the summer I was eighteen. They spent their winters in Mesa, Arizona
and eventually spent their final days there.

One of the lasting memories of them that I have is the fact that even though my uncle seemed
like such a gruff old guy, he loved my Aunt Winnie with all his heart and soul, as she did him.
I could see it every time he would tease her. She got this girlish smile on her face and he always
got a twinkle in his eye. I noticed the affection between them even as a small child.

When each of them died, their ashes were scattered on the rock cliff beside the lake. They put
so much into that place that it seems right they should remain forever a part of it.

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Written by Dorothy
Copyright © in Canada 2000

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