Week-Enders

By Gregory Clark, illustrated by James Frise, August 4, 1945.

“It’s great,” enthused Jimmie Frise, “to see new places, to get away from the familiar scenes…”

“What I don’t like,” I stated, “is this business of wasting most of the week-end travelling to a summer cottage. How far should a summer cottage be from the city?”

“Aw, don’t worry,” said Jim. “Perry does it every week. And you’ve seen the fish he gets.”

“Those two bass he gave us last week,” I admitted, “were the swellest bass I’ve eaten in years. Four pounds each. Like twins.”

“Perry,” said Jim, “has been trying to get us to come up to his place for over 10 years now,”

“And only the trouble of getting there,” I reminded him “has interfered.”

“The only place you get good fishing,” declared Jim, “is where it is hard to get at. Easy places to get at have all been fished out years ago.”

“As I understand it.” I figured, “we drive 140 miles. Then, we catch a steamer that only runs once a day. The steamer dawdles up through the lakes, stopping at every wharf it sees. We get to Perry’s place, providing the boat’s on time, about 6 p.m.”

“Well,” said Jim, “we have all that evening’s fishing. Perry says you can start fishing right in front of his cottage. It’s as good there as any place else. And then, we get up early in the morning and fish until 3 p.m., when we catch the steamer on the down trip.”

“And arrive back at the boat terminus after dark,” I muttered, “and drive all night.”

“Okay, if you’d rather not go,” moaned Jim.

“Now, now,” I exclaimed, “don’t let’s be hasty. I just want to consider the thing from every angle.”

“The world,” stated Jim, “is full of people like you. They want to consider things from every angle. They blather all around a subject until they take all the bloom off it. Here’s a swell week-end offered us, in one of the greatest fishing districts left in Ontario. Instead of jumping at it with enthusiasm and joy and good-will, we have to fiddle and diddle around, worrying and fretting about how long it is going to take us…”

“I’m a thinker, Jim,” I explained. “I’m the philosophic type. I like to weigh each problem in advance. For instance: how far should a summer cottage be from the city? That’s a question interesting tens of thousands of people.”

“The distance a summer cottage is,” announced Jim, “from a man’s city home depends entirely on what he wants. If he just wants a place away from the city, beside a lake where he can keep cool and go for a swim, and do little gardening and loafing around, why, his cottage should be about 40 miles away. And there are tens of thousands of people in that category. On the lakes 40 to 50 miles from Toronto, there are thousands of summer cottages.”

“They might better stay right at home in the city,” I put in, “as far as escape from the city goes. A lot of those summer resorts are mere residential suburbs of the city.”

“My Mind’s Made Up”

“There you go,” said Jim. “Trying to arrange other people’s lives. Don’t you see, it’s what people want that governs their habits and their conduct. You want fishing. Okay. You’ve got to go a lot farther than the man who doesn’t care a hoot about fishing.”

“But we don’t have to go as far as Perry goes,” I submitted. “Think of the hardship on his family. Having to go and exile themselves away off in some remote neck of the woods, cut off from easy access to all sources of supplies…”

“Perry gets fish,” pointed out Jim.

“But at what a price?” I cried. “Driving 140 miles there and back every week-end, dawdling up the lakes in a little pokey steamer…”

“You’d better make up your mind,” cut in Jim, “because Perry will be here any minute.”

“Oh, I’ve made up mind,” I assured him. “I’m going all right.”

And I carried my sport bag and fishing tackle out on to the veranda to be ready when Perry arrived.

Which he did in about 10 minutes and we flung our gear into his car and we were off in a cloud of exhaust fumes in less time than it takes to tell it.

“Are we late starting?” I inquired, as we sped through the city streets.

“No, plenty of time,” said Perry. “Only I’ve got to stop at a farm for a crate of eggs and some vegetables. And we’ve got to buy some supplies before we get on the boat.”

“Why don’t you lay in supplies in town here,” I inquired, “the night before?”

“I’ve got everything worked out to a system,” explained Perry. “I’ve been making this journey for nearly 20 years. I’ve got it all down to a science. I leave at a certain time. I get to the farm at a certain time. I arrive at the wharf at a certain time. I find if I do my shopping at the far end, I don’t forget as many things as I do if I shop in a hurry here Friday night.”

“Habit,” explained Jim.

“Yes, habit,” said Perry. “You get into a certain routine on these summer week-end trips to the cottage. If you don’t follow the routine, you’re always getting into a mess.”

We swerved violently around a truck.

“Shouldn’t you go slower in the city?” I suggested. After all, we can make up time once we get on the highway.”

“This is the way I always do it,” replied Perry. “I’ve got it down to a time table. I’ve got to be leaving the city limits at a certain time.”

“But you allow for emergencies?” I inquired. “For instance, a flat tire?”

“That’s in the schedule,” agreed Perry. “The reason I’ve got to leave the city limits at exactly 11 a.m. is to allow 20 minutes for a flat tire.”

“But if you don’t get a flat tire?” I asked.

“Then I have 20 minutes leeway at the other end,” explained Perry. “If I get a flat tire, then it’s nip and tuck. I’ve got 20 minutes less in which to buy supplies.”

“I’d hate to operate on a time table as strict as that,” I said, weakly, as we shot past a baker’s wagon and narrowly missed a kid on a bicycle.

Flat as a Pancake

“Woops,” said Perry, slacking speed slightly, but glancing at his watch.

“What you don’t understand,” cut in Jimmie from the backseat, “is that there is a lot of pleasure in working to schedules like this. Perry gets a kick out of beating the time table. It’s like a game.”

“Exactly,” said Perry. “But rest easy. I haven’t had a flat tire in the past three summers.”

“Then the law of averages is against us,” I stated grimly.

It was. Five miles outside the city limits the car began to sway on the road. Perry drove to the shoulder and when we got out, the left rear tire was as flat as a pancake. Perry leaped out and opened the back of the car. Whipped out his repair kit and jack. Jimmie and I, inspired by Perry’s alacrity, went into action, and while Perry kept checking his watch, we got the spare tire on in exactly 11 minutes.

“Nine minutes to spare,” breathed Perry excitedly, as he slammed the black lid down and scuttled around into the driving seat.

“Suppose you get another flat?” I inquired.

“Aw, cut it out,” cried Jim from the back.

“The law of averages,” said Perry, “is a million to one against two flats on one 140-mile trip.”

And the law of averages stood by us until we were past Orillia. Then there was a sudden loud wheezing sound, the car began to lurch dangerously, and in a cloud of dust we pulled up far over on the shoulder with one front wheel already half-way down the ditch.

“Aw, tough luck,” I said, after swallowing.

“Wonderful handling,” cried Jim. “Perry, you sure handled that blowout in wonderful style.”

“There’s a garage,” gasped Perry, leaping out, “about a third of a mile ahead.”

And already he was frantically thumbing the passing traffic.

“Get the spare off,” he cried, opening the back lid.

And as soon as we had the spare whirled off, Perry, with the spare resting against his knees, succeeded in halting one of the passing throng of cars.

“Mind the car,” he yelled, boarding the Samaritan’s car. “I will be back in a shake.”

“Jim,” I said, as Perry vanished, “we can never make it now. There is another 60 miles to drive. And the steamer leaves at 3 o’clock.”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” soothed Jim.

So we sat on the running-board and watched the traffic. Some of it furiously hustling. Some of it dawdling.

“Give me the dawdlers,” I said. “They’ll get there.”

It was 40 minutes, long minutes, before a garage truck drove back down the road with Perry and the repaired spare.

With the garage man’s help, Jim and I, having already jacked the car up and got the blowout off, had, the spare back on in six minutes flat. We didn’t even fasten the blowout back on the spare rack.

“Okay,” gasped Perry, leaping into the driver’s seat.

Luck Fails Again

And the next 60 miles was a green nightmare, with the fields and woods whipping past my eyes as I slunk deep down in my seat so as not to see the traffic we were slashing through.

“No supplies,” gritted Perry through his teeth. “Won’t have time.”

“The boat will be gone,” I said thickly. “It’s 3 o’clock now.”

“About three times a season,” said Perry, “the boat is 10 minutes late on leaving. The law of averages can’t be against us all the way.”

But when we came over the last hill, there, a good three miles up the lake, was the steamer.

“Well!” said Perry cheerfully. “Maybe one of the launches from up the lake will be going our way.”

“When is the next boat?” I inquired.

“Tomorrow morning.” said Perry. “But we’ll get up. Don’t fret. There is always somebody going up.”

We drove out on the steamer wharf and dumped our baggage. Perry drove the car back to a parking lot.

“It looks pretty deserted to me,” I told Jim.

“Aw, now,” pleaded Jim. “Enjoy the adventure of it. Don’t you feel any thrill at battling against odds?”

“Not the slightest,” I assured him. “My blood pressure is up about 40 points.”

Perry came back in a few minutes.

“I’ve checked at the boathouses,” he said. “There isn’t any boat going up this afternoon. But the chances of somebody coming down from up the lake are still good. Let’s buy supplies…”

So we walked up town while Perry laid in the coming week’s provisions for his family exiled far away up the lakes.

When we got back to the wharf, one of the little boys who sells fishworms told us that a big cabin cruiser belonging to Mr. Bottleton had come and gone.

“Bottleton!” cried Perry in anguish. “Why, his cottage is less than a mile from mine!”

So we sat with our luggage and watched up the lake. Sundry launches, cruisers and small boats came and went, but all were local traffic to town.

“How about renting a rowboat,” I suggested, “and doing a little fishing around the bay here?”

“No fish in here,” said Perry disdainfully. “And besides, we might miss a connection.”

So there we sat on the wharf, or wandered over to watch the small craft coming or going, or talked with the little boys who sell worms. And at 7 p.m., Jim and I went up to the Chinese restaurant for a quick supper while Perry stood guard, and then he went and ate. And as dusk fell, I suggested:

“Okay, boys, let’s drive back to the city. We can take our time. We won’t have to rush…”

“What?” cried Perry indignantly. “And miss visiting my place, when we’re this close!”

So we went uptown and got rooms at the local hotel. We were too late for the movie. We promenaded through the main street, looking in the hardware store windows and then went to bed about 10 o’clock.

“Lend Me the Oars”

“The steamer leaves on Sundays at 7 a.m.,” said Perry as we went to bed. “Bright and early for us.”

We got up at 6, had a very sketchy breakfast in the hotel cooked and served by a sleepy lady who hadn’t wanted to get up at all. Down we charged to the dock, loaded our luggage and supplies aboard just as they were pulling up the gang-plank.

Perry was welcomed very familiarly by the six members of the ship’s company. He introduced us to the captain and all the deck hands.

“Goin’ up for a real stay this time?” said the captain.

“Just to see the folks,” said Perry. “We’re coming back with you tonight.”

“Ooooh,” said the captain soberly. “We don’t make the late run in August any more. We just go to the next stop north of you and turn around and come straight back.”

“But…” gasped Perry.

“It’s been on the notice board there,” said the captain, “all July. See? It says, curtailed service for August.”

“But… but…” said Perry.

“You’ll have about three-quarters of an hour,” assured the captain. “You’ll have time to run up to your cottage and come straight back.”

“Harrummff,” I cleared my throat.

But Jim stepped on my foot, hard.

So we sat on the deck and admired view as the little steamer huffed and puffed and shuddered and shook up through the lakes, stopping at every wharf it saw.

And when we arrived at Perry’s resort, he pointed out his boy, a brown-skinned little lad, among the handful of people waiting on the wharf.

We rushed our gear and supplies off. We grabbed armfuls and hurried down to the small dock where the boats were tied. Perry indicated his outboard skiff and we chucked the stuff in.

“Might as well leave our tackle on the wharf here,” I suggested. “Maybe, to save weight, I could just wait on the dock, eh?”

“Come on,” cried Perry, “have a look at my place, anyway.”

“I’ll run the engine,” piped up Perry’s small boy.

“Get away,” said Perry. “We’re in a rush.”

And he grabbed the starting cord, twiddled the levers and gadgets with trembling hands, and heaved.

We were off before the steamer backed out. About a hundred yards away from the dock, the outboard engine began to slow down and whine.

“What have you done to this engine?” yelled Perry fiercely.

“It runs okay for me,” murmured the little boy.

It died. Perry twiddled, yanked, peered in the gasoline hole, shook it, kicked it, and yanked, yanked, yanked.

We drifted down the channel past a couple of islands.

“I’ll take the oars,” I suggested.

“She’ll go in a minute,” puffed Perry. “Flooded, I guess. That’s what comes of letting kids fool with engines.”

“There’s our place now,” said the little boy politely, pointing around the end of an island.

We drifted another couple of hundred yards. Perry was still jerking and twiddling.

“I’d better get the oars out,” I repeated.

“Well…” said Perry, gazing towards his cottage. A group of ladies had appeared on the cottage dock. They were waving. Perry waved back and his face gleamed with a fond look.

But we were still 300 yards from the cottage when we heard the whistle of the steamer out in the big bay.

“Good grief!” cried Perry.

“Lend me the oars,” muttered Jim.

“Leave somebody at the oars,” I gritted, “who doesn’t go for schedules.”

And I really made that skiff whirl around, amid faint cries from the party on shore. And I really kicked up a spray as I made for the channel.

As we rounded the last bend, the steamer was reversing, the old boy on the wharf was flinging up the steamer’s rope. Jimmie got into the bow and roared and waved and finally caught the captain’s eye.

We transhipped at sea. Perry hugged his boy on behalf of the whole family and scrambled aboard the steamer last.

And as we stood on deck, gazing back at this beautiful though remote fishing country, we saw Perry’s little boy sitting in the stern of the skiff, the engine humming, and heading back down the channel, the cartons of supplies piled in the bow.

“Well,” said Jim enthusiastically, “we got the supplies through anyway!”