Going to the lake a Manitoba tradition

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 25/07/2020 (2223 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

It’s one word: “goingtothelake.”

No matter where the summer home is located, Manitobans always just say they are going to the lake.

More accurately, Tobans go toward a lake. Most summer homes aren’t even on the water.

If Tobans enjoy lakefront, they build a boathouse straight ahead and look at that.

But the availability of back lots means retreats are relatively affordable. Our vacation home ownership rate is reputedly the highest of the provinces. We’re lake people. Almost.

We head to bustling summer towns of subdivisions, blocks and streets. They mow grass, clip hedges, fill gardens and planters, import white lilacs, purple loosestrife. They scrape, sand, paint and when that’s done, they start again.

And they knock at neighbours’ for “a beer.” Neighbours eagerly retaliate.

By September, Tobans escape these towns and drag themselves back to town.

The lovely benefit of all this is: in both early and late summer Tobans exclaim, “It’s great to get away!”

Manitoba’s smallest municipality, attractive and captivating Victoria Beach, regulates summer town excess. Uniquely, it prohibits motorized vehicles on cottage roads so its thousands of seasonal residents can relax. Despite taxi service, cottagers peddle quiet bicycles, albeit with mandatory bells, or risk a $100 fine and impoundment.

Many bikes have oversized baskets, or tug packed utility wagons loaded with bedding, toys, games, tools, the two-fours and a two-six, with the youngest on top clutching groceries. These are almost organized, frantic family rides. Residents proudly explain, “That’s how we relax!” As for the sprawling parking lot, they say, “Let’s remember: we’re next to the blue car.”

Manitoba park beaches are among the best. We also swim at dog-friendly Beaconia Beach with our pup, Pirate. I warned Margie, “Watch for nudes there.”

That got her attention.

She exclaimed, “Oh, that’s why you go!”

I explained, “I didn’t say ‘look’ for nudes. If you see one, don’t be surprised.”

I quickly had to go outside for something but heard her add, “And what would you do if you did see one?”

Cottagers on Lake Winnipeg’s west side enjoy the enticing Arnes Farmers Market, weekend home of great pastries and rainbow bread, a petting farm, a zip line for tots, a wooden Bedrock — Manitoba charm, especially for children.

Kids gleefully played on a big spinning boat propeller with a daisy in the middle. I wondered how that was safe. During a lull, I climbed on. Sure enough, the prop spun, and I spun off, avoiding a blade to my head, but bruising my leg, arm, shoulder, and back. I also got a grass stain on my head.

As families gathered and children hopped back on, I leapt up, puffed out my chest, and walked away. It’s good that pushups and yard work keeps one nimble, agile, supple.

On a completely different topic, what’s better — physio or massage therapy?

Aside from remarkable Clear Lake for walking, swimming, and Barnaby’s ribs, we’re partial to “The Whiteshell” with its rocks, pines, and peanut butter burger at West Hawk’s Nite Hawk. Plus pizza and cold ale at Brereton Lake Resort. Dip into Rainbow Falls. Let water cascade around you on the flat rocks of astounding Pine Point Rapids. If I mention Falcon Trails Resort, there’ll never be a vacancy, so I’m leaving that out.

Summer camp is where kids find freedom. But, based on experience, why shoot an arrow straight into the air? Why eat clams off the beach? If no one is watching? But that’s ok, because you throw up. Why put frogs in the girls’ cabin? And the next year, why is there a separate girls’ week?

Named in a suspicious Indigenous language, there’s Camp Runamuck at Souris, or Camp Wannakumbac at Clear Lake, among others. I went to Pioneer Camp on Shoal Lake for canoeing. I was into paddling. I still have a strong right pull, good for starting a boat motor.

Across the big lake, we paddled. In the midst of a great expanse of blue and silver water sat a lonely island. As we came nearer, the island looked small, with three pines.

We craved our sandwiches so we dug in our paddles to get there faster.

The canoe scraped against the rock as we took turns getting from our wobbly boat onto the steady outcrop to sit in a pine’s shade. Peanut butter sandwiches never tasted so good.

Suddenly a twig snapped behind us.

I saw a squirrel.

“How did a squirrel get way out here?” I exclaimed, “In the middle of nowhere!”

It hopped away with something important to do.

As we paddled off, I wondered: How’d that squirrel get to its far-off home surrounded by the big lake? Did it float on a log? Did someone take it in a boat? Did it hide in a boat? Can squirrels swim, and that far?

At camp, a know-it-all explained, “It was born there!”

This remained a mystery for years.

Our family rented a Whiteshell cabin one winter. I saw an island reminding me of the mystery. It struck me. Thirty years later. I know how the squirrel got to that island.

It walked.

With icy cold feet.

Now, how did pines get there?

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