Things change over time. I've spent quite a bit of time on this theme, and maybe this is the entire point of this blog. When the Camp was built, as soon as solid shelter was complete, the next necessity for a camp of this size was an ice house. Ice was a natural resource of sorts, renewable every winter. It allowed storage of perishable foodstuff through the summer months when the sun shone on Gohere Bay, reflecting off the sparkling waters to drive temperatures soaring in heavily wooded areas.
Ice harvesting was the work of winter when the lake froze solid. Heavy boring bits drilled patterns in the thick ice a ways off shore. Long saws tore through the ice to connect the dots and create blocks that floated free. After several blocks were floating, large tongs were clamped in the blocks and they were lifted out to a waiting sled. Once at the ice house, they were skidded into place and covered with sawdust to absorb moisture and minimize melt.
Some cabins were built with lofts above where ice was stored. This provided the byproduct of a cool dwelling in the summer months.
While refrigeration became commonplace in the rest of the world, ice houses were still common in Gohere Bay well into the 1940's. Finally, the new generator was in place and electricity would keep the freezers running enough to prevent thaw.
Thus began a re-puropsing of buildings at the Camp. The icehouse near the dock became the store and office, the office/store was remodelled to the owner's cabin with the motor house/toolshed being converted into sleeping quarter and eventually an indoor bathroom.
The space between the icehouse and the lodge building had been filled in as a kitchen to service the main dining room. The design was simple and followed Canadian Design Prinicpals. Start at the highest immovable rock and build everything else up to that level. There was a leftover space between the walls of the icehouse and the wall of the lodge building that was long and narrow. A window was placed at the far end and a team of guides fashioned a table and benches of planks. As the space was tight, the benches didn't move and once on the bench, those seated merely slid down toward the window. The log walls provided a firm, if quirky, backrest and developed a smooth finish from the constant buffing of wool, denim, oilcloth and cotton.
The Guide's table quickly became the hub of the Camp. In the morning plans and wagers were made at dinner time stories were told, all over meals prepared by the cook of the day. Nobody ever counted, but Willard often spoke of the number of languages in play at any one time. Fights at the guide's table were rare, there just wasn't any room, besides, how angry can two men stay when sharing meals of fresh fish, moose, rhubarb or meatloaf.
I think the one thing I may miss the most would be the Guide's table. I miss the quirkiness, the languages like the husky, clipped tone of Welsh, the intensity of French, the gutteral German or the sing-song lilt of Swedish and Norwegian. The last time I sat at the table late at night, gazing out the four panes of glass, I marvelled at the quiet, there in the stillness of 10:00 pm dusk, watching the mirror-like water reflect the string of yellow light bulbs, hung between the store and the manager's cabin, I knew the Camp would never be the same as it was at that moment. Then I figured, it never had been the same as that moment either.
No comments:
Post a Comment