By Dennis McCloskey
An inability to stay quiet is one of the most conspicuous failings of mankind.
~Walter Bagehot
"Oops, sorry." Those two simple, solitary, apologetic words once got me kicked out of an outdoors game that I like to play at our cottage. The game is called "The Silent Hike" and it is based on the premise that nature and silence go together. It is played on a series of groomed trails that have been blazed in a forest across the road from the log cottage that my wife Kris and I had built on a lakeside lot two hours north of our Toronto-area home in 1992.
An inability to stay quiet is one of the most conspicuous failings of mankind.
~Walter Bagehot
"Oops, sorry." Those two simple, solitary, apologetic words once got me kicked out of an outdoors game that I like to play at our cottage. The game is called "The Silent Hike" and it is based on the premise that nature and silence go together. It is played on a series of groomed trails that have been blazed in a forest across the road from the log cottage that my wife Kris and I had built on a lakeside lot two hours north of our Toronto-area home in 1992.
Everyone who plays the game must adhere to one simple rule: You must not talk at any time during the one-hour hike. Not. One. Word.
On one occasion several years ago, on a warm July afternoon, I stood at the edge of the forest and explained the rules to a group of six gamers who included Kris, her brother Bob, his now-deceased wife Ann, and their two preteen sons, Andrew and John.
"You must be quiet as a mouse," I explained. "Even if you see a bear, you must keep your trap shut," I joked. "Utter a sound and you're out of the game. The winner is anyone who can complete the hike in complete and golden silence."
For the first twenty minutes, we tramped through the woods as "noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness," to quote John Keats. I took up a rear position and was thoroughly enjoying the serenity of the hike through the woods. We all became immersed in the tranquility of this walk with nature, where the only audible noise, other than the gurgling sound of the babbling brooks we crossed, was the rustle of snapping twigs under our feet. I was paying close attention to the stillness of the event when at one point, while lost in my thoughts, I came up too close to Ann and accidentally stepped on the heel of her hiking boot. "Oops, sorry," I said, automatically. "That's okay," she whispered, politely.
Well, you'd think we just killed Bambi! Everyone stopped and pointed at us, noiselessly but accusingly, and indicated in no uncertain terms that we were out of the game. Since I had created the rule, I had little choice but to suck up my punishment. We all trooped onward.
Now that I had been banished, I played devil's advocate. When I spotted a tiny snake slithering through the grass, I yelled out: "Hey, John, I'll give you $10 if you can tell me what kind of snake this is." John didn't bite. Neither did the snake. Later, I called out to the tight-lipped adolescents. "Kris and I have two extra tickets to a couple of Toronto Blue Jays games next week. Would you two like to come?" Both boys nodded their heads excitedly and in silent unison. "Which game would you like to see? Wednesday's game against the Yankees or Saturday afternoon against the Red Sox?" The expression in their bulging eyes was painful to watch. "Speak now or forever hold your peace," I teased. "Let me know now or we'll take your mom and dad instead."
Bob thought I was being a tad unfair and he let his feelings be known when he uttered a sympathetic "Awww." Both boys jumped up and down and, still under the gag order, demonstrated a universal sign that their father was toast by drawing their forefinger across their throat.
"Ha," laughed my wife.
And another one bit the dust!
To their everlasting credit, and despite the best efforts of four scheming adults, the two youths completed the journey without so much as a peep. Later that evening, Kris and I hosted an Awards Barbeque to honour the winners. Everyone got a chuckle when they saw the booty bag of prizes which included aptly named chocolate bars and candy, namely Turtles, Snickers and Smarties. I had tried to find a Noisette bar -- delicious caramelized hazelnuts buried in milk chocolate -- but they are available only in the U.S.
The Silent Hike is just one of many quiet activities that Kris and I enjoy at the cottage. I can easily spend a speechless summer afternoon chopping wood for the fireplace while she enjoys the sweet serenity of reading a novel on our deck that overlooks the still and deep waters of Lake Manitouwabing.
Whenever I feel like exercising at this soul-satisfying place, which is surrounded by tall pines and maples, I put on my running shoes and run up and down the wooden stairs that lead from the cottage to the lake. When my father Wally died a year after the cottage was built, I had the staircase built in his honour. There are fifty steps, and at Step #25 I placed a gold-plated plaque that reads: "Wally's Stairway to Heaven." If I'm going down for a swim or coming up from a canoe ride, I know I'm halfway there when I stop at Step #25 and whisper a silent prayer. Often, the prayer is one of gratitude for owning such a place of splendid isolation. We feel extremely fortunate, especially when we learned that only seven percent of Canadians own a cottage. Our secluded spot is indeed a treasure. Even a poor little rich girl like the late Diana, Princess of Wales -- who seemed to have it all -- once lamented: "I've got to have a place where I can find peace of mind."
During snowy winter weekends, at our four-season cottage, we are reminded of the phrase that "serenity is not freedom from the storm, but peace amid the storm."
As much as we love the stillness at our lakeside retreat, we decided to put the cottage up for sale this year. We got a bug. The travel bug! We want to explore more of the world before we get fitted for the "Forever Box." But no matter where we travel and whomever we meet, having owned a cottage will give us lots to talk about.
On one occasion several years ago, on a warm July afternoon, I stood at the edge of the forest and explained the rules to a group of six gamers who included Kris, her brother Bob, his now-deceased wife Ann, and their two preteen sons, Andrew and John.
"You must be quiet as a mouse," I explained. "Even if you see a bear, you must keep your trap shut," I joked. "Utter a sound and you're out of the game. The winner is anyone who can complete the hike in complete and golden silence."
For the first twenty minutes, we tramped through the woods as "noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness," to quote John Keats. I took up a rear position and was thoroughly enjoying the serenity of the hike through the woods. We all became immersed in the tranquility of this walk with nature, where the only audible noise, other than the gurgling sound of the babbling brooks we crossed, was the rustle of snapping twigs under our feet. I was paying close attention to the stillness of the event when at one point, while lost in my thoughts, I came up too close to Ann and accidentally stepped on the heel of her hiking boot. "Oops, sorry," I said, automatically. "That's okay," she whispered, politely.
Well, you'd think we just killed Bambi! Everyone stopped and pointed at us, noiselessly but accusingly, and indicated in no uncertain terms that we were out of the game. Since I had created the rule, I had little choice but to suck up my punishment. We all trooped onward.
Now that I had been banished, I played devil's advocate. When I spotted a tiny snake slithering through the grass, I yelled out: "Hey, John, I'll give you $10 if you can tell me what kind of snake this is." John didn't bite. Neither did the snake. Later, I called out to the tight-lipped adolescents. "Kris and I have two extra tickets to a couple of Toronto Blue Jays games next week. Would you two like to come?" Both boys nodded their heads excitedly and in silent unison. "Which game would you like to see? Wednesday's game against the Yankees or Saturday afternoon against the Red Sox?" The expression in their bulging eyes was painful to watch. "Speak now or forever hold your peace," I teased. "Let me know now or we'll take your mom and dad instead."
Bob thought I was being a tad unfair and he let his feelings be known when he uttered a sympathetic "Awww." Both boys jumped up and down and, still under the gag order, demonstrated a universal sign that their father was toast by drawing their forefinger across their throat.
"Ha," laughed my wife.
And another one bit the dust!
To their everlasting credit, and despite the best efforts of four scheming adults, the two youths completed the journey without so much as a peep. Later that evening, Kris and I hosted an Awards Barbeque to honour the winners. Everyone got a chuckle when they saw the booty bag of prizes which included aptly named chocolate bars and candy, namely Turtles, Snickers and Smarties. I had tried to find a Noisette bar -- delicious caramelized hazelnuts buried in milk chocolate -- but they are available only in the U.S.
The Silent Hike is just one of many quiet activities that Kris and I enjoy at the cottage. I can easily spend a speechless summer afternoon chopping wood for the fireplace while she enjoys the sweet serenity of reading a novel on our deck that overlooks the still and deep waters of Lake Manitouwabing.
Whenever I feel like exercising at this soul-satisfying place, which is surrounded by tall pines and maples, I put on my running shoes and run up and down the wooden stairs that lead from the cottage to the lake. When my father Wally died a year after the cottage was built, I had the staircase built in his honour. There are fifty steps, and at Step #25 I placed a gold-plated plaque that reads: "Wally's Stairway to Heaven." If I'm going down for a swim or coming up from a canoe ride, I know I'm halfway there when I stop at Step #25 and whisper a silent prayer. Often, the prayer is one of gratitude for owning such a place of splendid isolation. We feel extremely fortunate, especially when we learned that only seven percent of Canadians own a cottage. Our secluded spot is indeed a treasure. Even a poor little rich girl like the late Diana, Princess of Wales -- who seemed to have it all -- once lamented: "I've got to have a place where I can find peace of mind."
During snowy winter weekends, at our four-season cottage, we are reminded of the phrase that "serenity is not freedom from the storm, but peace amid the storm."
As much as we love the stillness at our lakeside retreat, we decided to put the cottage up for sale this year. We got a bug. The travel bug! We want to explore more of the world before we get fitted for the "Forever Box." But no matter where we travel and whomever we meet, having owned a cottage will give us lots to talk about.
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