The bear has gone and it’s time we were too.

This is the time of year that a two year old bear’s mother kisses her cubs goodbye and sends them off to find their own territory. She has other things in mind and can no longer be bothered. So off they wander to find their own food for a change, and that’s how one of them came to visit on Rebel’s Isle. I could tell by the space between the tooth marks on the drain line from the composting toilet that runs to the leaching bed down the hill, it was a youngster. It was a hungry little bear who tore it out of the ground and chewed it like a dogs squeaky toy. I’ve heard bears are omnivorous, now I know for sure a bear will eat anything. He tried to get into the unit itself, and compliments to the Sun-Mar people, he couldn’t. He did rip the wiring out but so what? Just another maintenance chore. The new fan motor assembly is installed, a new drain line is buried, and the access panel he tore from the cabin skirting is back in place. And I’ll bet the bear won’t go chewing on live electrical wiring again. Fortunately, by the time it’s time to button up the cottage we’ve had enough of this stuff and we’re more than ready to go, even though it’s lovely up here. Late Fall is indoors time. Time for snoozing by the wood burning stove listening to the pine needles filter down outside. Through the big window the colours are glorious, gaudy reflections painted on the lake; something for the geese and the loons to ripple passing quietly by.

Quietly, yes, it’s finally quiet. Most everyone’s gone home. Boats and sea-doos are put away. Radios are silent. There are no howling outboards doing hot laps in the sunset. The sun gets to set in silence and we can sit out on the screened porch and sip our wine in peace. When the cottagers go home the animals come back. Moose are spotted in the wetlands nearby, coyotes are heard howling and yipping from over the ridge. We watch a partridge snacking its way across the island. All last winters deadfalls are finally gathered and cut into stacks of more stove wood than we will need. The fresh ends of newly cut wood gleam in the tidy woodpile. Our newest resident, the chipmunk, skitters about with cheeks packed with acorns. I wonder if he will be here next spring, it’s a long hard winter and this is a tiny domain even for a chipmunk. Cottaging is work, and no cottage work is harder than opening and closing. Opening is all about joy and anticipation of another season finally getting started; closing is about relief that it’s finally over, tinged with sadness that it’s over. The cottage doesn’t make it easy for you to leave. You must work hard for its permission, defrost refrigerators, climb ladders to put the storm covers on the windows and see that a competent job of draining the water system is done. You must drag chairs and loungers and kayaks over rocks and stuff the boathouse like a Chinese puzzle. You must pack and haul boxes full of kitchen stuff and bring home anything that may freeze, and be sure you thought of everything because if you didn’t the cottage will point out what you missed next spring. Inside, the main room goes gloomy as the last shade is pulled and the pile of rocking chairs, rustic lamps, my silly old handmade beaver stick table, begin the long snooze of winter beneath the big blue tarp. The last snap of the power turning off, the click of padlocks put another season into memory. Mark Jones will come to pull the water and store the boat - the last acts of closing up. And we’ll putter off in our overloaded boat, looking back one last time at Rebel’s Isle, and we’ll say aloud, “Goodbye Rebel, see you in the Spring” as we have each year for thirty years, always hoping for at least a few more. But we aren’t sorry to be leaving now. By this time each year we’re glad for a break from loading the car; driving north; loading the boat, crossing over; unloading the boat; opening the cottage, and two days later doing it all again in reverse. Besides the cold weather is closing in, we’re soaking wet and it’s time to go.