Happy new yurt!

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 01/02/2025 (295 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Margie and I awoke this frosty New Year’s Day peering up at branches swaying above. But we were inside. Really.

Cosied up in one of Canada’s strangest lodgings, a bed lies below a Plexiglas dome in the Wiigwaasaatig yurt at Minaki Yurt Adventures.

To reach this destination, the 45-kilometre-long Minaki highway meanders north from Kenora into what is called the “Unorganized Kenora District.” Sure enough, rocks are strewn with no thought of organization. Trees stand wherever. Waterways lie haphazardly. There’s not a straight row, a tidy pile or anything in alphabetical order. Thank goodness! Like my desk.

Kilometres of curves later, I caught myself humming The Long and Winding Road. This route is especially suited for truckers, off-road race drivers, moose. A sign announcing “Catastrophe Rd.” didn’t help. But the boreal journey is beautiful, and worth it.

Jenkins greeted us while clenching a metre-long birch stick. Jenkins is the owners’ dog. Margie said, “So cute!” I explained, “That’s his shtick.”

Yurts originated as portable Mongolian dwellings, but our cedar-lined yurt is one of five unique permanent structures here. And I doubt Mongols lugged fridges, stoves and sinks, and enjoyed instant hot showers. Plus, our yurt features a Norwegian incinerating biffy. It’s sweetly called the Cinderella Toilet. Entering the bathroom, I caught myself humming not Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo, but Ring of Fire. However, contrary to my imagination, it did not incinerate any part of me.

The toilet’s process defies all my understanding about what burns. As I conscientiously arranged paper, kindling and logs to inflame the living area’s stove, in the bathroom you just push a button to burn even pee. A note does warn against incinerating more than four times an hour. Don’t plan a beer-and-bean-eating contest relying on Cinderella.

I wasn’t concerned about negotiating the sleeping loft’s ladder or, thanks to crampons, walkways down to the yurt and lake. But the floor-to-ceiling window could trick a wandering doofus into thinking it’s a lovely open doorway. I quietly put on beard oil and pressed my face against the glass so future guests could find a laugh.

Margie later said, “Why would someone put their face against that window? Must be a very needy person. Someone needing attention.” I replied, “Sad. Hey, look at me! Ever see someone with an orange on their head?” That caused Margie to balance an avocado on her head and walk gingerly across the room.

Windows lured me to sit and gaze across Camp Lake. A sloping granite precipice somehow supports tall, skinny spruce trees. Snow, icicles and rippled ice sheets drape across boulders — a living Lawren Harris painting. Ahh, the Canadian Shield.

As shimmering ice crystals drifted under a sunny sky, we unwound hearing only one nodding little bird, a squirrel… and CN Rail’s main line. As remote as you otherwise feel, the trains’ rumble and horn resound several times daily as railcars roll through the community of Minaki.

Margie says, “I love that sound. It reminds me of my childhood living near the tracks.” She must be brimming with delight that my snoring is sounding more train-like these days.

For fun, Minaki folks sometimes spell Gun Lake as Gunn Lake, and name four lakeside locations Paradise Cove. The site of the former Minaki Lodge, including a vacant waterfront condo building, offers great potential. Minaki also offers an irresistible destination for fish and game. I shared my idea for a super slogan: “Minaki: Very fishy. Very gamey.” Margie said, “Maybe polish it a bit.” But Minaki is mostly a summer place; Minaki Marina’s store only opens on Saturdays in winter.

We hiked around Camp Lake. Margie surprisingly strayed from the snowmobile-packed path. She then turned, and turned. On the glistening lake, I saw how she fashioned a big heart. In return, I revealed what I lovingly etched earlier: a goofy smiley face beaming on an ice-encrusted rock wall. Margie’s expression suggested I had defaced a Harris canvas.

Pointing to boulders, I provided a geology lecture: “This here was created by glaciers, or something big.” I then stuck my head into a dark crevice — because Margie refused. Nothing bit my face, but Margie did hear a growl that maybe sounded like me. As she kept walking I heard, “Wouldn’t you be surprised.”

Returning, we heated the resort’s wood-fired sauna and hauled in water for steam. Being merely one and two per cent Scandinavian according to DNA tests — and with no Cinderella button to push — we fumbled for an hour until, like Seinfeld’s Kramer, I finally said, “It’s like a sauna in here!” But we still wore winter footwear. With a flowery bathing suit, lime-green socks and big, brown Keen boots, I flattered Margie: “Miss Finland!”

Back at the yurt, she said, “How about watching a Christmas movie I downloaded?” I replied, “Not with our stove fire and views!” I stared for hours at those forms of entertainment. What had become of me? But it does help you sleep well.

Next night below the dome, the Big Dipper shone brightly, directly above our bed. I know this because Margie exclaimed, “Wake up!” Correction: you sleep fairly well.

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