The surface is as clear and smooth as glass.
This lasts until a lone vacationer on a seadoo revs his engines and cuts an azure line across the water, from west to east.
I get buzzed by a pair of hummingbirds as I take my morning coffee on the back porch, watching the water stand perfectly still and the more ambitious residents take their dogs out for walks before 9AM.
If you walk to the waters, take the longest dock to the very edge, you see clouds of minnows darting, flowing, hiding among the reeds.
When I was younger, I’d use butterfly nets to try and catch them.
I’m really not sure what for. They didn’t taste good in the slightest.

My father’s never caught a fish at this lake in sixteen years.
I’ve never gone out fishing with him here either, I was
usually too busy with comic books and teenage sulking,
never really took an interest.
The first time we went out, as he was teaching me the finer points of casting out,
he flung the five-of-diamonds lure idly off the side of the boat and was
about to start elaborating on how fast you should reel in,
when a three-pound jackfish abruptly became
more gullible than usual.
He barely looked like a meal, so my father and I
threw him back in, assuming lightning would naturally strike twice.
We spent the rest of the week pulling in nothing but seaweed
and nobody believed us (we didn’t bring the camera.)
But we knew.

That said, the size of the fish grows by about a pound each time
the story gets retold around the campfire, over Coors and cocktails and
misshapen s’mores.

The baritones of the CKUA radio hosts slinks
through the walls, rumbling about thunderstorms
and community events
and abbreviated national news,
the glut of details left to clickbait articles
and in-depth analysis nobody out here
has any use for.
Slowly, your eyes stop searching
for the refresh button
and the iPhone chimes are buried
under birdsong, tall shoreline reeds
played by offshore breezes
and the hundredth retelling of
your favourite ghost story.

“This one time, while I was in the woods…”


Something In The Woods

IMG_1165As far back as I can recall, my father has always been telling stories.

There were the ones from his own childhood, the details patched together or overwritten in favour of something leaner and cleaner. There were a fistful of Hardy Boys Mysteries in weathered hardcover he’d read to us, chapter by chapter, until we fell asleep on school nights.

And then there were the stories about the woods.

Behind the family cabin nestled deep in the wilderness of Northwestern Saskatchewan, there was a thick, nearly impenetrable growth of old trees ringing a bog, ones that had resisted the axe for decades since the first few people bought lots around the crystal clear waters and started cobbling together summer homes. It’s a half-hour drive from the nearest town, off a series of dusty gravel roads, and the only line of contact to the outside world is a beat-up payphone lingering near a power line. The television offers seventeen different channels full of snow and static, and the only voices you can find on the radio dial are the local community talk shows and a buzzy CBC station on the AM side who give out the time signal every morning at eleven o’clock sharp.

Everything else is… silence. And when you’re used to the buzz of the city, your brain doesn’t handle silence all that well. It needs something to fill in those gaps, the spaces between the trees, something to slip between the waves of that azure lake. And after years of being propped up by television and video games, when you’re left without so abruptly, like a smoker quitting cold-turkey… things can start to get a little fidgety. A little unusual.

“Did I ever tell you the time I saw the Beast?”

It’s 1996. I’m ten years old, sitting on the floor of the cabin, my meagre supply of comic books exhausted and the rain outside showing no signs of abating. Every other breath out of my body was an indignant sigh of boredom, delivered right where my parents could hear it best because they had insisted no, no, bringing a television up to the lake was a bad idea. My mother was napping on the couch, the book she was reading half-held in her hands. My father was planning out renovations, as he always did.

He asked again,

“Did I ever tell you the time—“

“What, dad?”

“Have you seen it?”

“Seen what?”

“Just in the woods out back? Looking at us?”

It was over my head. I didn’t have a clue. He set aside his pencils and rulers and joined me on the floor by the wood stove.

“Well, when I was a little older than you, back when we were first building the cabin with your grandpa, we had to stay in trailers just where the tool shed is now. And while we were sleeping one night, the dog started letting off this huge howl, barking like mad. And I thought to myself, you know, it must be raccoons or maybe coyotes. So I go out to calm him down…”

“Uh-huh…” I wasn’t buying it. I felt like I’d seen this movie before.

“So I’m out there, with my flashlight, and the dogs at the end of his chain, yapping his head off, pointed like an arrow towards the treeline. And sure enough, you can hear the coyotes chatting amongst themselves, they’re a regular fixture around these parts. But then I hear something else.”

“A monstrous roar?”

“More like.. more like a moan. A low moan, coming right from across the road there. Right from the thick of the trees. And I see something… and I figure I ought to follow it, see what’s what.”

The trees in question linger across the dirt and gravel road behind our cabin, like a crowd of bystanders gathered to watch something unusual unfold in swaying silence. Somewhere within them was a slew, where hordes of frogs teemed and croaked, giving soundtrack to the otherwise silent nights. Tall reeds and berry bushes and an infinite supply of mosquitos were there… it’s supply of bogeymen was far less certain.

“…Right dad.”

He’d go on to tell me about how he’d ventured out, deep into the woods that night, searching for the source of the noise. What he found, at the end of an overgrown path, was a beast, eight feet tall, covered in wiry fur and with features so plaintive it looked, in the right light, like it was the saddest creature on Earth. It didn’t react in anger when my father approached, according to the tale he told; it just sat there and moaned louder, looking him straight in the eye, unwilling to hide it’s melancholy.

It’s 2015 now.

The nearest woods have been cut back, allowing new cabins to take root behind our own lot, upon which the old ramshackle pea-green cabin has been replaced with a replanted Calgary home with a dishwasher and real doors that close. It’s all comfortable now, more so than it has ever been before, and the surrounding environs are no longer boredom-inducing to my mind; after almost three years in the belly of Vancouver, the idea of being able to see the stars without the din of city lights and opening the window without catching a siren’s blare is heavenly. Late at night, after my parents have long since gone to bed, I sit outside alone and listen to the chatter of crickets and frogs, the occasional rapport of fireworks from the more party-oriented vacationers down the shoreline, and the metronome-like thrum of waves against the sands.

And I’m still listening for the Beast, alone in the woods, watching us all with some kind of mournful curiosity, wishing he didn’t feel like he was the last of his kind; a solitary entity, staring through windows at happy families listening to stories on the radio, wishing he could come in to warm himself up.

Almost two decades later, I think I’m finally starting to get the story.

A Tactical Withdrawal


It’s not a retreat, it’s a tactical withdrawal, a measured falling back in steps one bus transfer and ferry ride at a time until at last you’re nearly off the grid until you realize the folks who own the cabin you wound up in had WiFi installed and it’s actually good, which is surprising given the remoteness of the location. While it may not be in the middle of the middle of nowhere it’s just a little off to the side, stuck somewhere along a seaside road with seals barking me awake and Seattle’s Best Coffee reinforcing the point that yes, I know I know, I ought to be writing.

This is a four-day span of unwinding, without traffic lights or subway tickets or cell phones to a point. The Little Beast is tucked away in my luggage, only to be checked and answered on an intermittent, lax basis, rather than being strapped to my hip at all times like a gentleman’s rapier. There’s a general store down the road past a string of getaway cabins that holds a smattering of wine, canned goods and slightly-old magazines, and further beyond that lies a roadhouse proudly boasting about it’s wild karaoke nights in broken-teeth lettering on it’s signpost. The ocean alternates between close encounters with the back porch and tactical retreats, leaving swathes of seaweed and shells that crack underfoot like the tougher cousins of eggshells when I attempt a morning jog (which is a poor idea on a rock-strewn beach.) The neighbours are either old or absent, with the gulls and the seals being the rowdiest of partiers in the early hours and only the barest of civilized lights visible to the south. The rest is silence, save for the constant crashing of the waves, and the occasional patter of the dog’s feet as he clicks and clacks around the kitchen eyeing my breakfast, heaping on the guilt until I cave and divvy up my bacon accordingly.

Writing in the city is hell. There’s a million and one different kinds of stimuli to pull you away, phones to answer and busses to catch and neighbours to tolerate and pressures to alleviate, a constant managing of symptoms that doesn’t point towards any particular cause. Trouble with writing in the city is that you’re never really bored, and boredom itself is demonized and exorcised by simply turning on the Xbox or stepping on down to Commercial Drive. When I was younger, there were four-hour car rides with nothing to stare at but the Big Saskatchewan Empty, a tiny cabin with neither television nor telephone (to a teenager, this is hell incarnate) and nary a streetlight for half an hour in any direction. But after the bags were unpacked and the isolation began to settle in, something clicked.

Let’s see what I can’t rattle off this time around.