Danny said to him, but Ketchum easily pulled his hand away.
“Just do your job, Danny,” the old river driver told him. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
VI. POINTE AU BARIL STATION, ONTARIO, 2005
CHAPTER 16. LOST NATION
FOR THREE WINTERS NOW, THE WRITER DANIEL BACIAGALUPO-who’d reclaimed the name that the cook and Cousin Rosie had given him-spent the months of January and February, and the first two weeks of March, on Turner Island in Georgian Bay. The island still belonged to Charlotte, the onetime love of Danny’s life, but Charlotte and her family had no desire to set foot on the frozen lake or those frigid, snow-covered rocks in the heart of the winter, when they lived happily in Los Angeles.
Danny had actually improved the place-not only according to Ketchum’s standards. Andy Grant had taped heated electrical cables to the waste lines that were used during the winter. These same pipes were also wrapped with a foil insulation and covered with an ice-and-water membrane. Danny could have had running hot water by applying similar heat-line and insulation methods to the water pipe running to the bay, but Andy would have had to do a lot more work-not to mention move the hot-water heater inside the main cabin to ensure that
There wasn’t just the ice-chopping; there was a lot of wood to cut. (Ketchum’s chainsaw was a big help.) In the ten weeks Danny was there, he cut all the wood he would need the following winter-with enough left over for Charlotte and her family to use on those summer nights when it was cool enough to have a fire.
In addition to the woodstove in the main cabin, there was a propane fireplace in the bedroom and an electric heater in the bathroom-and Andy Grant had put fiberglass insulation between the floor joists. The main cabin was now sustainable for winter weather, and there was a second woodstove in Danny’s writing shack, though there was no insulation there; the little building was small enough to not need it, and Danny banked the perimeter walls of the shack with snow, which kept the wind from blowing under the building and cooling off the floor.
Every night, Danny also banked the fire in the woodstove in the main cabin; when the writer awoke in the morning, it was only necessary for him to put more wood on the fire and fully open the flue. Then he tramped outside to his writing shack and started a fire in the woodstove there. Overnight, the only concession he made to his IBM typewriter was that he covered it with an electric blanket-otherwise, the grease would freeze. While the writing shack was warming up, Danny chopped a hole in the ice on the lake and brought a couple of buckets of water up to the main cabin. One bucket of water was usually sufficient to flush the toilet for the day; a second sufficed for what cooking Danny did, and for washing the dishes. Charlotte ’s oversize bathtub easily held four or five buckets, which included the two that had to be heated (near to boiling) on the stove, but Danny didn’t take a bath until the end of the day.
He went to work every morning in his writing shack, inspired by the view of that wind-bent pine-the little tree that had once reminded both the writer and Ketchum of the cook. Danny wrote every day until early afternoon; he wanted to have a few remaining hours of daylight in which to do his chores. There was always more wood to cut, and almost every day Danny went to town. If there wasn’t much garbage to haul off the island, and he needed only a few groceries, Danny would make the trip on cross-country skis. He kept the skis and poles, and a small haul sled, in Granddaddy’s cabin near the back dock. (That was the unheated, possibly haunted cabin Ketchum and Hero had preferred during their days and nights on the island-the cabin with the trapdoor in the floor, where Charlotte ’s grandfather, the wily poacher, had likely hidden his illegally slain deer.)
It was a short ski from the back dock of the island across Shawanaga Bay, and then Danny took the South Shore Road into Pointe au Baril Station. He wore a harness around his chest; there was a ring attached to the harness, between Danny’s shoulder blades, where a carabiner held a tow cord to the haul sled. Of course, if there was a lot of garbage to take to town, or if he needed to do more extensive shopping in Pointe au Baril, Danny would take the snowmobile or the Polar airboat.
Andy Grant had warned the writer that he would need to have his own snowmobile as well as the airboat. There weren’t many days in the winter months when boating conditions were unfavorable, except when the temperature climbed above freezing; then the snow sometimes stuck to the bottom of the hull, making it difficult for the airboat to slide across the snow-covered ice. That was when you had to have a snowmobile. But in early January, when Danny arrived at Charlotte’s island, there was usually open water in the main channel out of Pointe au Baril Station-and often floating slabs of ice in the choppy water in the Brignall Banks Narrows. Early January was when the Polar airboat was essential-and, only occasionally, in mid-March. (In some years, albeit rarely, the ice in the bay began to break up that early.)
The airboat could cruise over ice and snow and open water-even over floating chunks of broken ice-with ease. It could go 100 MPH, though Danny never drove it that fast; the airboat had an airplane engine and a single, rear- mounted propeller. It had a heated cabin, too, and you wore guards to protect your ears from the sound. The airboat had been the most expensive element of making Turner Island habitable for Danny during those ten weeks in the coldest part of the winter, but Andy Grant had shared the cost with the writer. Andy used it as a work boat, not only in December, when the ice began to form in the bay, but from the middle of March till whenever the ice was entirely gone-usually, by the end of April.
Danny liked to be gone from Georgian Bay before the start of mud season; the ice breaking up in the bay held no attraction for him. (There wasn’t much of a mud season in Georgian Bay -it was all rocks there. But for Daniel Baciagalupo, mud season was as much a state of mind as it was a recognizable season in northern New Eng land.)
Since Charlotte ’s family used the bedroom in the main cabin only sparingly, as a guest room, Danny kept some of his winter clothing in the closet year-round-just his boots, his warmest parka, his snow pants, and his ski hats. Naturally, Charlotte’s and her family’s summer paraphernalia was everywhere-with new photographs on the walls every winter-but Charlotte had left Danny’s writing shack as it was. She’d found a couple of pictures of Ketchum with the cook, and two or three of Joe, which she had hung in the shack-perhaps to make Danny feel welcome there, not that she hadn’t already done enough to make him feel warmly invited to use the place.
Charlotte ’s husband, the Frenchman, was evidently the cook in their family, because he left notes for Danny in the kitchen about any new equipment that was there. Danny left notes for the Frenchman, too, and they traded presents every year-gadgets for the kitchen and sundry cooking ware.
The more recently restored sleeping cabins-where Charlotte and her husband, and their children, slept every summer-were understood to be off-limits to Danny in the winter. The buildings remained locked; the electricity and propane had been turned off, and the plumbing drained. But, every winter, Danny would at least once peer in the windows-no curtains were necessary on a private family island in Shawanaga Bay. The writer merely wanted to see the new photographs on the walls, and to get a look at what new toys and books the kids might have; this wasn’t really an invasion of Charlotte ’s privacy, was it? And, if only from such a wintry and far-removed perspective, Charlotte ’s family looked like a happy one to Daniel Baciagalupo. The notes back and forth with the Frenchman had all but replaced Charlotte ’s now-infrequent phone calls from the West Coast, and Danny still stayed out of Toronto at that September time of the year, when he knew Charlotte and her director husband were in town for the film festival.
Ketchum had advised the writer to live in the country. To the veteran river driver, Danny hadn’t seemed like a city person.
Well, that the writer spent a mere ten weeks on Turner Island in Georgian Bay didn’t exactly constitute
