Appleby College - Argus Yearbook (Oakville, Ontario Canada)

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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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And straight ahead we see the place, The island, that we sought. Now all at once, the walk ' s a race, We ' ve beaten what we ' ve fought. We stumbled in, our limbs were numbed, The wood, it felt like foam. Thank God, my will had not suc- cumbed, It ' s warm: I ' ll call it home. T. French From Witch ' s Point we all could see Rabbitnose and I assure you it was a welcome sight. We had been walking for six miles. It was not actually the distance that bothered most of us but more the fatique caused by our first en- counter with snowshoes. As we neared the island, the first thing that caught my eyes was a large ruddy-brown coloured building. The most outstanding feature of the building was the fact that the roof sagged downwards at a moderate angle. Having never seen a picture of the northern campus, this building dismayed me to a great degree. When I stepped off the lake and onto the dock, I overheard that the large building was known as the boathouse and it was to be our sleeping quarters. Being quite tired we entered the boathouse immediately. My second surprise came when I realized that the staircase inside the boathouse was tilted to one side and badly iced. At the top of the staircase was a door. The second floor of the boathouse was different. It was warm and cosy. There was a total of five rooms, all furnished in chip board. Inside each room were bunks, with mattresses, constructed with 2x4 ' s. There were two large propane heaters along with two mantle - lit propane lamps. On the outside of the two largest rooms was a very inviting sun deck, where our only reminder of civilization, the Canadian Maple Leaf was flying. The most endearing feature of the boathouse, however, was the abundance of names of former occupants carved everywhere. Directly beneath the rooms was a storage area full of canoes, sailboats, and camping equip- ment. For the most part this was heavily piled but around the edges lay stocks of odd junk. The most interesting part of the boathouse was the ATV. It had six wheels and was very capable of making its way through any terrain, as its name suggests. G. Stott 10 It is a cold, wintry morning, and nine drowsy figures tumble out of bed, landing on the rough, splin- tery floor of the boathouse. Some are dressing, while others peer into the entrance hall, to see if the two duty boys have refilled the wash basins before going up to the lodge. It is customary for two boys from the duty patrol to go up to the lodge at six-thirty or seven and prepare breakfast for the others, who can sleep in until eight. Before they go up to the kitchen, however, they have to go to the waterhole and break through the layer of ice that has formed over the previous night, and fill up the washbasins. The bodies can now be seen filing out of the boathouse door, shuddering at the minus fifteen degree weather. They troop up the narrow dock-like path to the lodge, an outwardly plain, somewhat decrepit building in any other climate, but warm, welcoming and friendly here. The wooden-framed windows, par- titioned into six panes, in the old style, are insulated with plastic sheets. The figures shuffle silently past the windows, glancing inside and seeing the bacon grilling and the porridge congealing in the cauldron on the old-fashioned, gasfired, stove. As they open the outer door, they are greeted by a rush of warm air, and they step into the an- teroom, which is designed to conserve heat. They open the second door, and find them- selves in a warm, rustic room, with a huge stone fireplace, con- taining a hearty, crackling fire. Pelts of raccoon, squirrel and a rabbit head adorn the walls. Pic- tures of the lake and island in years now past also look down from the wooden-panelled walls. A battered spinnet piano leans against the far wall, the ivory keys yellow with age and use. The once shiny walnut box is scratched and dented, its fine 101

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£ 103