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carvings unable to survive its ar- duous life. Beside the fireplace, one sees a five-foot high, six-foot long pile of logs, for the fire. A hurricane lantern, bringing you back to the seventies, hisses out its bright white light on top of the piano. Breakfast has begun now, and the formerly silent and dismal phantoms of the boathouse have come to life over the hot porridge, sizzling bacon, and golden-brown eggs. The murmur of conversation rises to a steady buzz before the middle of break- fast, in the small, wood-panelled dining room, with its varnished oak tables and squat, wood- burning stove, heartily con- suming log after log in its belly. An almost smiling moose head stares down from its plaque on the wall, showing off its magnificent crown of antlers. Some bright spark has put a fluorescent hunting cap on its head, a strange irony. A match, also placed by some wit, rests in its mouth, in a thoughtful sort of way. A swinging door leads the way into the kitchen, an old- fashioned, gas-equipped scullery. The stove is a huge, matte black, iron affair, with a monstrous door hiding in the gaping cavity of an oven. Four large burners sit above the stove, one running constantly, keeping a huge silver cauldron steaming, which contains the only hot water on the island. Leading off the kitchen is the pantry, where dried foods of all varieties sit on the shelves. Pails full of sugar, lard, and flour, mounted on wheels, slide under the shelves. Breakfast is over now, and grace is said. A few mumbled and barely audible ' Amens ' precede a shuffling, as boys move to the benches, sofa and rocking chair, which encircle the pot-bellied stove. The director now outlines the affairs that are going on that day, the second of two weeks. Now , says the director, as he swings his leg over the back of a chair to rest on the seat, Gen- tlemen, you and your respective counselors will lunch out today in spots chosen by them. Rob ' s group will head for the second inlet, while John ' s and Bruce ' s groups will head towards Sealrock point. Get your supplies and billys now, and the non-duty patrol can leave immediately. The duty patrol can leave shortly, after clean-up. That ' s all. Again the scraping of chairs and growing buzz of conversation, as the boys get up and race to the kitchen, and into the pantry. When the non-duty patrol has got their supplies, they leave the kit- chen to the duty boys, who are left with the arduous task of dish- washing. The AM-FM radio is happily blaring out the top ten, as it has done through countless years and batteries. We join up with the non-duty patrol once again, as we see them filing out of the boathouse, once again. This time, however, they are wearing heavy parkas, coats, gloves, goggles and sunglasses, and balaclavas and heavy winter boots. Three ' lucky ' ones are also wearing bright orange packsacks, containing a ' light ' load, about thirty pounds. The weight is jacked up by the sleeping bag, which must be carried at all times, even if it is not an overnight trip, in the even- tuality that some poor un- fortunate should find a hole in the ice. The five voyageurs, looking like members of Scott ' s Antarctic team, are now bent over, strap- ping on the snowshoes, so vital to travel the lake and surroun- ding area, because of the two to three feet-deep snowdrifts. Goggles or sunglasses are a necessity there, as the glare from the snow is great enough to cause temporary blindness. All five are ready now, their snowhoes adjusted, goggles pulled down over the eyes, packs set snugly on their backs. They jump off the dock, and form a line, one counselor leading, one bringing up the rear. The three mile trek begins, as the muffled creatures plodd along, awkward on the snowshoes. The worm-like line fades into the distance, melting into and becoming part of the scenery - the grey, jagged cliffs, crowned with a tiara of evergreens, en- closing the seemingly endless plain of frozen lake. It seems that all beauty and life freezes in win- ter, along with the lake. Charles Stacey 102
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