Cabin Number 5
Wayne J. Lutz
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 Wayne J. Lutz
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About the Author
Wayne Lutz was previously Chairman of the Department of Aeronautics at Mount San Antonio College in California, leading the school’s Flying Team to championships seven times as Top Community College Flying Team in the United States. He also served as a California Air National Guard C-130 aircraft maintenance officer.
The author is a flight instructor with 7000 hours of flight experience. In the past three decades, he has spent summers in Canada, exploring remote regions with his Piper Arrow, flying north from Los Angeles and camping next to his airplane. In 2000, he discovered the beauty of Powell River, British Columbia.
The author now resides in a floating cabin on Canada’s Powell Lake during all seasons. His writing genres include regional Canadian publications and science fiction. This is the ninth book in series entitled Coastal British Columbia Stories.
Author (right) with John Maithus, Powell Lake aquatic engineer
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Other books by Wayne J. Lutz
Science Fiction
Inbound to Earth
Echo of a Distant Planet
Coastal British Columbia Stories
Up the Lake
Up the Main
Up the Winter Trail
Up the Airway
Up the Strait
Farther Up the Lake
Farther Up the Main
Farther Up the Strait
http://www.PowellRiverBooks.com
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The stories are true, and the characters are real.
All of the mistakes rest solidly with the author.
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Cabin Number 5
Contents
1 – Number 5
2 – Haulin’ Cable
3 – Diagonals and Parallelograms
4 – In the Rain
5 – Numbers 1 through 4
6 – Blueprints of the Mind
7 – Pony Walls and Blue Barrels
8 – Deck Foundation and Floor Joists
9 – Renovating Number 1
10 – Cabin Swap
11 –Anchor Drop
12 – Haulin’ Lumber
13 – Raisin’ the Walls
14 – Second Floor
15 – The Church
16 – Green Roof
17 – Lockup
Epilogue – The Long Ride
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Number 5
John numbers his floating cabins based on their order of construction. As is typical of his standards, it’s a logical system. But difficult to understand from the outside looking in.
Leaving Shinglemill for a trip up the lake, the first of John’s cabins is Number 4. It’s little more than a placeholder of a cabin, commonly referred to as the Tool Box. It’s logical that the Box is the fourth cabin constructed or rebuilt by John, although the first of his cabins you encounter on the lake.
Continuing north, Number 1 is next, the current location of most of John’s projects. All of his cabins are active in their own regard, but Number 1 is where he concentrates his latest cabin building activity. Within the breakwater of Number 1, a grouping of twenty cedar logs floats loosely tied by rope, ready to form the foundation of a new cabin. Next to this future cabin sits the current Cabin Number 1.
Farther up the lake, at Hole in the Wall, is my cabin, Number 3. I bought this cabin from John ten years ago, but we still call it Number 3. And across the bay sits Number 2. It’s all perfectly logical.
The numbers have now increased. For a new cabin, designated Number 5 is being born. It begins as series of float logs, hauled down Goat Lake’s Frogpond Main and dropped into the water at the Clover Lake logging dock, six kilometres north of Hole in the Wall. These twenty cedar logs were then towed down the lake to temporarily rest at Number 2, then farther south where they currently sit next to Number 1. That’s where John’s newest cabin will be built, fifth in the line of construction.
This is the story of Number 5.
* * * * *
While I’m in California, John tows his float foundation logs into place, inside the breakwater at Number 1. Meanwhile, I fight my way north in my Piper Arrow, sneaking into the Pacific Northwest between late September storms. The first week of October is spent in Bellingham, waiting for the latest series of low pressure troughs to move out of the area. The jet stream roars overhead, drawing autumn storms down the BC coast from the Gulf of Alaska.
There’s a brief respite between the line of gales that allows me to sneak into Powell River on a solo flight that keeps me plenty busy. I’m used to the luxury of having Margy as my copilot, but she remains in Bellingham for another week. Her assistance is particularly valuable when flying under the complexity of instrument flight rules (IFR), necessitated today by the still-marginal weather conditions.
I’m fully engaged and focused on the cockpit panel during the one-hour flight to Campbell River, where I’ll clear Customs. Today, in and out of clouds, it’s a full-time job flying the airplane while presetting navigation radios for the next leg and keeping up with the requirements of air traffic control. During the brief periods when I break free of the clouds, I refocus outside for errant floatplane traffic that might be twisting through these big sucker holes on visual flight rules.
But by the time I pull off the runway at Campbell River, I’m back in my element. The weather is still showery, but I’ll be able to complete the rest of the flight below the overcast. Clearing Customs is as simple as parking in the red box until my flight-planned estimated time of arrival, and then leaving. I’m a known traveler in the government computers, and seldom bothered by even a spot check.
By comparison to the flight from Bellingham, the twenty-minute hop across the Strait of Georgia to Powell River is a snap, because I fly this leg under visual flight rules. The landmarks are familiar, and the weather is perfect. I slip over some scattered stratus clouds near Harwood Island, and slide comfortably down final approach to Runway Zero-Nine. By the time the airplane is parked and unloaded, there’s still enough daylight to take care of my chores in town and head up the lake before dark.
Since this is the only dry day in over a week, John is high in the mountains, riding his quad to Ice Lake near Mount Alfred. I have just enough time to check the mail, quickly pay a few bills, coordinate some book deliveries, buy groceries, and head up the lake before the next round of rain moves in at the end of the day.
As I load my boat at the Shinglemill, a slate-gray overcast already threatens rain. I don’t want to delay getting to my cabin, but there is one important stop on the way up the lake – Cabin Number 1. I waste no time casting off from the Shinglemill. A few minutes later, I’m riding comfortably over familiar waters at the south end of the lake.
When I arrive at Number 1, I’m surprised to see the new logs already laid out in a grid, with one brow log propped up on the cedar foundation framework. The new float structure fills the entire area in front of the original Cabin Number 1. John has been busy, despite the latest storms.
* * * * *
My October arrival is greeted by one sunny day (adequate for my flight), followed by a middle-of-the night storm that brings two inches of rain. The downpour and its associated winds drive my float cabin in every direction, knocks the wood gangplank into the water, and fills the tin boat so full that I have to bail it out when I check it in the middle of the night. Near noon the following day, the vicious storm departs as quickly as it rolled in. The winds are still whipping every which way in Hole in the Wall, but the sun breaks through with a burst of rainbow against Goat Island. I ponder whether John might decide to work on his new cabin float foundation today.
I briefly consider taking the Campion down the lake to see if John is working at Number 1, but whitecaps in the Hole convince me otherwise. When this water is so tossed by wind, the lower lake is undoubtedly rough. Crossing the large open area nicknamed the North Sea would be uncomfortable. Plus, it’s unlikely that John would try to salvage a half-day of work under such conditions. By 3 o’clock, it’s raining again, so I stay hunkered down in my cabin.
Just before sunset, conditions have calmed enough to take the tin boat out. I gather two fishing poles and head out to see if the trout are any more inclined to bite in early October than during the spring and summer. This year has been the worst fishing I’ve seen on Powell Lake, but maybe the trout season is merely late. The previous winter was the harshest I’ve ever seen, and the summer was late and brief. The local trout must have been adversely influenced by this abnormal year-without-summer. Besides, any excuse is a good one when it comes to going fishing.
I bring the tin boat up on-plane, battling the small waves, as I head for the waterfall on Goat Island only a kilometre north of Hole in the Wall. The falls are running strong all along this section of the island, developing quickly after the rains of the recent storm.
On my second cast into the churning water where the waterfall enters the lake, an 8-inch trout hits my red-and-white daredevil, but he gets off my line just as I’m pulling him into the boat. A few casts later, I catch a slightly larger rainbow, just off the edge of the roiling water. This is better fishing than I’ve seen all year.
But as is often the case in a hot spot near a waterfall, the fishing cools quickly. So I allow the boat to drift south with the gentle wind that drives it. I’m pushed steadily along the shoreline, close enough to cast nearly up against the rocks. It looks like an ideal spot for trout fishing, but I don’t get a single bite.
I start the motor and switch to trolling, continuing south though First Narrows. Looking farther down the lake, the North Sea is full of whitecaps, just as expected. When I cross through the Narrows towards the navigation light on the other side, I’m hit by strong winds that are focused in this constricted passage. At trolling speed, I’m unable to control the direction of the small boat. After being turned around twice, I finally give up, reel in my line, and slap through the waves back to Hole in the Wall. It’s not unsafe, but it certainly isn’t comfortable. Yet it makes me feel better about not traveling down the lake today in the Campion, trying to find John.
* * * * *
The next morning dawns clear and calm. The radio weather report indicates this will be the only day this week without rain, since another series of storms is already moving down the coast. My guess is that John will use this chance to work on Cabin Number 5. I plan to surprise him by showing up to assist.
In reality, I know there isn’t a lot I can do to aid in this project, but John is always grateful for my help. Usually it’s only a matter of handing him tools and keeping him company, but John always appreciates it. He’s a solo worker on almost any project, and what he accomplishes by himself is amazing. For him, it’s pure luxury to have an able-bodied assistant.
I don my coveralls, heavy boots, and pack a lunch. By 10:30, I’m on my way down the lake, probably well-timed to meet John just after he arrives. But when I get to Cabin Number 1, I find a few surprises.
First, John didn’t beat me. The lake is in already in bright sunshine, except for the east shore where the cabin sits. I’m pretty close to Number 1 before I can tell John’s boat isn’t sitting in the morning’s shadow. But even before I can tell his boat is absent, I see a splash right off the edge of his breakwater. It would take a mighty large fish to make a splash that big. Beating John to the cabin, a sizable fish, and now a third surprise – a second large brow log has been added to the float.
It’s obvious that John was here yesterday, undoubtedly in the afternoon, after the storm passed through. Even then, it must have been a battle to travel up the lake in the winds I witnessed at Hole in the Wall. And to pull another brow log into position by himself, even with the assistance of a winch, is a feat difficult to imagine.
Maybe John is simply running late, so I cut my engine outside of his breakwater and allow my boat to drift along the boomsticks. It’s a gorgeous morning, still in the shade here, looking out over the sparkling lake. And while I’m here, there’s the matter of that fish.
I pull out my fishing pole, one of two I always carry with me in the Campion. I select the largest red-and-white daredevil I have, big enough to scare away a small trout. But just right for a big one.
I cast along the outer line of breakwater logs, a good spot for a trout. In just a few casts, a fish strikes my line, and the battle is on. I’m yelling and holding my pole high to try to keep this fish on the line, knowing that my barbless hook looses a lot of fish. He fights hard, but I win, hauling a fat 14-inch cutthroat trout into the boat. It may not be a monster by others’ standards, but it’s the biggest trout I’ve pulled from this lake so far, a beautiful fish.
I handle the trout carefully, pulling the hook from its mouth with a pair of pliers. The fish is still full of life and anxious to get back in the water, so I’m not worried about reviving it. The cutthroat seems ready to jump from my grasp, if I allow him to, so I simply place the fish in the water and relax my grip. The beautiful trout darts away, following a shallow arc downward. I yell in excitement, probably more thrilled with the release than the catch.
But there’s no sign of John. When he awoke this morning to a rare clear day, knowing it is the last sunny day in the forecast for the next week, he probably decided to go riding on his quad. Meanwhile, I show up for my first day of work on the new float cabin, and the boss isn’t there because he’s goofing off. So I go fishing. In my mind, that’s good employee relations. There’s no question – I have a fine boss. But I’m not yet sure it’s the perfect job for me.
* * * * * * *
* * * * *
Chapter 2
Haulin’ Cable
On a promising October morning, I drive to John’s house to meet him for the trip up the lake. We’ll use my boat, since it has more power, particularly valuable for today’s goal of towing a raft with two 300-pound spools of three-quarter-inch steel cable to the cabin construction site. But first we need to get the raft that’s stored at Cabin Number 4, two kilometres up the lake.
The front seat of John’s truck is full – two people, one dog, and lots of tools. In the bed of the truck are the two spools of cable, which take nearly all of the available space. Jammed between the spools are our backpacks, two turfer winches, more tools, and enough food to keep two guys and a dog going for the day.
Our first stop is the Shinglemill Marina, where John drops me off to get the boat. While he drives over to Mowat Bay, I crank up the Campion and motor across to meet him. Just as I arrive at the dock, he pulls into Mowat, parks his truck, and gives Bro a chance for a brief run. Within a few minutes, they join me in the Campion, with the engine still running. I probably surprise John by still sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Shall I drive?” I ask.
“Sure,” says John, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Just kiddin’,” I say as I slip out of the seat and wait for John to take over.
I could drive, of course, but I never do when John is aboard. It’s understood by both of us that he’s in command whenever we’re aboard one of our boats. We both prefer it that way.
We cruise up to Number 4, hook up to the raft, and begin the slow process of towing it back to Mowat Bay.
“Five knots is about max,” says John, once we settle into the tow. “See how the front of the raft is trying to dive into the water.”
“Maybe we can go faster on the way back, with the spools loaded towards the back,” I suggest.
“Could be, but don’t expect much improvement,” replies John. “Not much of a raft you know. But it gets the job done.”
Which it does, as do all of John’s rafts. They are strategically placed at his three float cabins, where they stand ready for almost any transport task.
A half-hour later, we pull into the Mowat dock, where a man paces back and forth, as if he’s waiting for us.
“Always somebody who has to get nosey,” says John. “Must not have anything else to do.”
We’ve come to Mowat with the raft in order to avoid spectators as we load the spools. We’re not doing anything wrong, but a raft and a few spools of cable can draw an inquisitive crowd. Right now, the crowd consists of one innocent passer-by who is merely interested in what’s going on.
“Building something big?” says the man, as I throw him our docking line.
“A float cabin, from scratch,” I reply.
The man nods in acknowledgement. People around here respect those involved in construction, especially anything big. I’m pleased to suggest I’m part of the construction crew. Maybe he even thinks I’m in charge.
“How long will it take?” he asks, maybe thinking this is a few-months project.
“Don’t know. We’re taking it one day at a time. Probably a couple of years.”
What I don’t know is how long it will really take. There’s no specific time target, because that would impose significant constraints. We’ll make headway as opportunities arise involving materials, weather, finances, and (of course) quad rides for the boss. John is good about waiting for bargains to appear, so we could be delayed for months waiting for sales on lumber, windows, hardware, and heavy-duty tools available for loan. In fact, though I have little concept of how long the building process will take, it will be almost three full years before we arrive at “lockup,” when the cabin can finally be secured for the first time with walls, doors, and windows in place. The expensive and slowest part – waiting out bargains on interior appliances and furnishings – will take even longer.
“Got to haul some cable up the lake,” I say to the man, who hangs around the raft waiting to see what’s going to happen next.
Meanwhile, John retrieves his truck from the parking lot and backs it down the boat ramp. I walk the raft around the Campion, using the still-attached tow rope. It’s a fairly easy task – anything that floats in the water is easy to move, just not so easy to maneuver. John hops back onto the dock to help me secure the raft, and the man lends a hand, too.
“Thanks!” says John.
John just likes to act grumpy about curious spectators. In reality, I know he appreciates the interest, just as we’re always interested in what others are building.
Off-loading the spools from the truck is a tricky process. We position the raft in the shallow water, close enough to the truck so we can roll the heavy spools directly off the tailgate, but we’ll need to keep the raft from bottoming out under the added weight. We slide the spools onto the raft as carefully as possible, but they still arrive with a thud. We adjust their position for proper balance by jostling them around, and then tie them to the raft, just in case the load tips.
While John takes his truck back to the parking area, I back the Campion into position. By now, our only observer has disappeared, and I await John’s assistance to hook up to the raft. In just a few minutes, we’re properly connected and ready to go. While John starts the Campion’s engine, I shorten the tow line to allow easier maneuvering near shore. Once clear of the dock, I let the rope out to its full 50-foot extension.
The ride back up the lake is no faster than coming down. Even with the heavy cable balanced a bit rearward, the raft still plows water.
“Time to install the new radio,” says John.
He relinquishes the driver’s seat to me, a rarity for us, while he climbs into the rear of the boat, over our load of tools and personal gear, looking for the radio. He finds the plastic bag that contains the modified car radio, on sale at Canadian Tire, and brings it up front.
“Quite a bargain, if it works,” says John.
I know it will work. After all, John has planned it out thoroughly, including the mounting plate he fashioned out of thick metal. Replacing the internally corroded marine radio with a car radio isn’t normally recommended. Then again, the expensive (and supposedly waterproof) boat radio only lasted a few years. So a bargain radio, modified by John, is worth a try. Now it only needs to be installed and hooked up.
As a result of precise alterations by John, the new radio slides perfectly into the mounting bracket on the side panel of the Campion. He connects the wires, adds a rubber gasket between the metal faceplate and the side panel, and screws the radio into place.
He toggles the On switch, and loud background static blares from the speakers. But when he activates the Scan button, the tuner immediately settles on a crystal clear version of the voice of Avril Lavigne.
“Hit the preset for channel number one,” I say. “That’s a good station.”
“How do I do that?” he asks.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I reply. “Just hold button number one until you hear a beep.”
“Okay,” he says.
He holds the button, and the radio beeps in compliance.
“You really don’t know how to set stations on a car radio?” I ask.
“I never use the radio in my truck,” he says. “I think it works though.”
He’s perfectly serious. Radios are an invention that John considers a waste of time. He goes through life without ever operating radios, and he doesn’t seem any the worse for it.
We motor past Cabin Number 4 (the Tool Box), then farther north to Cabin Number 1, where the new foundation logs for Cabin Number 5 await us. John takes back control of the boat as we approach the breakwater entrance, and maneuvers the raft through the narrow opening.
We tie up three hours after we left John’s house for the Shinglemill. Of course, when we return to town later today, we’ll need to retrace our steps. John will retrieve his truck at Mowat Bay, while I take the Campion back to the Shinglemill, where John will pick me up. When building a cabin that floats on a lake, nothing is easy or fast.
* * * * *
Our first full day of work together goes slow. After spending three hours just getting to the work site with our materials, half the day is already shot. What time remains, we use mostly for measuring and adjusting the position of the float logs.
John uses a long-handled peavy to make the protruding length of the float logs equal on each side, relative to the brow logs on top. He works this prying-and-rotating tool to slide and roll the logs. When he takes a break and leans the peavy against a brow log, it slips a few inches and then suddenly slides directly towards a gap between the logs.
“Grab it!” he yells.
But it’s too late. I’m too far away, and John is at an impossible angle. In just a few seconds, the peavy hits the narrow opening between the logs and is gone, lost in 30 feet of water. Dropping tools during float construction is a constant hazard, and John is always attentive to the problem. Almost never does he loose anything into the water. But this time he has lost an extremely valuable tool, and he’s terribly frustrated.
“Expensive,” he says. “Probably about ninety dollars. And the water is way too cold and deep to dive without a wetsuit and a tank. I won’t be able to get it back until next summer.”
I feel for him. John protects his property carefully, and I’d never expect him to loose a tool, especially one as valuable as this. Yet it has happened on one of our first workdays on the float. It’s a bad omen.
From my standpoint, the only positive factor is that I’m not to blame. It could happen so easy, and I’d be devastated if I was responsible for losing John’s peavy. I have the feeling this won’t be the only tool lost during the construction process, and it’s most likely that I’ll hold the record – not an enviable forecast.
The rule of thumb for float cabin living is to never drop anything on the outside the cabin, especially near the edges of the deck. Even with the small cracks between deck boards, things find their way to these openings. Hang onto your keys, and pass things from person to person carefully. When working on a float foundation of logs, with much bigger “cracks,” hold onto tools and materials with both hands, whenever possible. And never drop anything on the “floor” that’s big enough to fall through a gap in the logs (sometimes as large as 6 inches). Even a big tool, like a peavy, can turn sideways and immediately hone in on a gap between logs, disappearing forever. The proof today is provided by the master of the don’t-lose-it philosophy, John himself.
We try to get back to work, but John is dogged by his momentary carelessness. He mutters to himself about his negligence throughout the afternoon. Now he uses a pike pole in place of the peavy, but it provides less leverage and isn’t suitable for rolling logs. On one log, he pries a little too hard, and the end-hook breaks off the pike pole. It can be repaired, but the incident mars the day even further.
We use three winches to adjust the float platform, trying to keep the logs in alignment in preparation for the final cable stitching that’s still days away. In just a few hours, the float is nearly square. We’ll leave the winches in place until the float is tightly sewn together.
Most of today’s remaining time is spent with adjustments to the log overhang dimensions. We move the logs into temporary position, then use spray paint to mark their alignment against one of the brow logs.
Once, when adjusting the distance between the two brow logs, I drop the tape measure. Nearly panicked over adding to John’s woes of the day, I reach down nearly instantaneously and grab the end of the tape, just as the reel disappears through a gap in the logs. I hang on for dear life.
“You lost the tape!” yells John, who misses absolutely nothing, even from the far side of the float.
“I’ve still got it,” I reply, trying to keep my voice under control.
My grip on the end of the tape is precarious, barely between my thumb and finger. But my grasp is determined, and finally I’m able to reach down and hold the end more securely with my other hand. Then I start to slowly pull the now-unwound tape up through the water. I just hope it isn’t wrapped around a rock or other snag on the bottom.
By now, John is hovering over me, making me even more nervous.
“You’re not going to get it back,” he says, offering minimal encouragement.
“I won’t lose it,” I counter, gritting my teeth and pulling slowly on the tape.
The long, flexible tape inches upward, until finally I feel the full weight of the reel coming up. I’ve got it!
“We need to be more careful,” says John, as the reel reappears in the gap between the logs.
It’s an understatement, of course, but he’s criticizing himself as much as me. I’m grateful I’ve retrieved the tape and haven’t lost anything during my first day on the job – yet.
By now, a light rain has begun. But it’s warm and not unpleasant working conditions, so we continue for another hour. We adjust the position of a few more logs and paint some more the alignment marks. Then we stop to admire our progress. A few of the logs have already shifted out of position, but the marks will allow us to easily readjust them before sewing the logs together with the steel cable. Maybe more importantly, these small white marks make us realize we are making progress, slow but sure.
* * * * * * *
* * * * *
Chapter 3
Diagonals and Parallelograms
The next work day, I drive the Campion down the lake from my cabin at Hole in the Wall to meet John at the float construction site. He waves me into a precarious spot at the end of the float. Comfortable tie-up space is limited, and John’s boat occupies the only almost-permanent docking location. I throw him a rope, and he secures it to the brow log.
With the winches now holding the logs loosely in formation, walking on the float logs is more stable but still cumbersome. It’s a process of carefully stepping from log-to-log, with each stride fighting a slightly different gap between logs and a different log height. The walking pace is uneven, and some of the float logs begin to roll if I remain on them too long. Our workplace has a floor that is rough and irregular, and we’ll be walking on that shifting foundation for a long time during the initial construction.
Our main task today is to weave the steel cable around one of the brow logs, preparing it for eventual stitching and tightening of the float. But first we need to pull all of the cable off the spool and run it out as straight as possible, so it will wind onto the brow log properly.
It takes both of us to pull the cable from the reel and drag it to its full length. We use the bridge to shore to straighten it, running the cable up the pathway past the outhouse. The 300 feet of three-quarter-inch steel cable follows the cliff trail all the way to the gravel beach. Together we untwist the remaining coils, a process that seems impossible for one person. Yet I know John is used to working by himself on such projects, and routinely handles multi-person tasks without assistance. How he does it, I’m not sure.
With the cable nearly straight, we begin the process of weaving it under the first float log and then up and over the brow log. Then we angle the cable back down into the water, below the next float log, and upward again over the brow log. It’s like sewing a seam, but the cloth is made of logs and the thread of heavy steel cable.
Each time we connect another log, we need to pull more cable from shore. Like a needle and thread, you move ahead one stitch at a time. In a few hours, we progress halfway across the float. On another day, we’ll return to the stitching with a hydraulic jack, to tighten each of the braids, one log at a time. Then we’ll do the same for the other brow log.
While we thread the cable into position, Malcom arrives unexpectedly on his jet ski. In a sad note regarding the change of seasons, he’s on his last ride of the year, burning off his tank of anti-contamination fuel in preparation for winter storage.
“Look!” I yell to John. “He’s wearing a wet suit.”
John laughs, knowing what I have in mind. But it’s too deep to go down for the lost peavy without an air tank, even with a wet suit. Still we kid Malcom about it.
“You can do it,” says John. “We’ll haul you back up, if you turn into an ice-cube.”
Malcom assists with the stitching process, allowing us to speed through the rest of the brow log. A third set of hands helps a lot, and within another hour we have completed the loose weaving of the cable on the first brow log. Bro, John’s black Lab, also helps, providing dog-critical supervision of our work.
After Malcom leaves, blasting away on his jet ski (demonstrating a maximum acceleration departure at my request), we turn to the final tweaking of the float. All logs are in place, but the dimensions aren’t perfectly square. The two diagonal measurements are off by nearly a metre, indicating a parallelogram shape that’s impossible to distinguish from a rectangle at a glance. But such imprecision would cause havoc with final squaring of the structure. So we make more measurements and repeated adjustments to gaps between the logs.
We use a turfer winch to slide the brow logs across the float logs, evening up the sides. Once the brow logs are tightened, there’ll be no further opportunity. But the diagonal measurements keep going astray. It’s easy enough to adjust the cant of the float with a slight tightening tug with the turfer, but it’s also easy to overshoot. We make repeated measurements, checking and rechecking, and begin to get a little punchy.
“What was that last diagonal?” asks John.
“Fifty-five feet, seven inches,” I think.
“Let’s do it again.”
So we do it again, and again, tweaking the winches until the float is within inches of square in all dimensions. When it comes to one final adjustment, I crawl out onto the end of the brow log and reach down to attach a choke cable to the end-most float log. We’ll fasten a turfer here, adjusting it to that all-perfect setting. I get a little sloppy, and lay the end of the choker down on the log, while I stretch out on my belly and reach underwater to grab the other end of the short cable. It takes just a second – the cable is gone!
I lay motionless on the brow log, waiting for reality to sink in. This is another valuable piece of equipment, not readily replaceable. And I have lost it to a watery grave.
“What’s going on?” yells John, when I don’t move for quite a while. “Can’t you find the end of the choker?”
Silence. Then: “John, you’re going to be really mad at me.”
More prolonged silence.
“You lost it, didn’t you?”
“I dropped it. John, I’m really sorry.”
Silence.
“Oh, well,” he says with a weak voice of sadness. “I guess we better think about hiring somebody to go down under the float and just stay there while we drop expensive stuff into the water.”
That’s one way to look at it.
We finish the job, finally squaring off the float by using a rope to replace the choke cable. It isn’t the best way to do it, but it works. With the silver-coloured braiding cable spread around the brow log, there are visible signs of progress. But we’ve got to stop dropping stuff before we run out of tools, materials, and patience.
* * * * * * *
* * * * *
Chapter 4
In the Rain
The day after we wind the cable on the first brow log (still not tightened), the first of a series of storms moves in. October troughs line up off the coast, coming ashore one after the other with barely a break between storms. To add to this delay, John comes down with a cold that disables him for a week. When he finally feels well enough to work, another low pressure system is moving in.
As the latest storm begins to roll onshore, Margy and I are trying to get out of town and up the lake before the wind begins. But the morning drags out in a series of seemingly endless errands, including last minute email projects, a visit to the lumber store, and shopping for a few essentials at the grocery store. By the time I push our buggy of food to the truck, the rain is already falling. But the wind is still only light. We should be able to beat the storm up the lake.
At the Shinglemill, Margy and I load the boat quickly and are on our way. The lower lake cooperates, as we maneuver along our standard route along the east shoreline, a course that better protects us from developing storm winds (typically from the southeast). This route also allows us to check the security of John’s cabins as we progress up the lake. Number 4 with its placeholder floating shed is first. Number 1 with the new float for Number 5 is next.
When the round the point near Number 1, I can see John’s boat tucked in against the new float foundation. Since he hates working in the rain and is supposedly still sick, this is a bit of a mystery.
“The weather’s holding pretty well,” I say to Margy as we maneuver into the breakwater entrance. “If John can use my assistance today, I’d like to offer to help.”
“Sure,” she replies. “I don’t mind waiting.”
Margy and I have come to an agreement about this project. She wants to be involved in the construction of Cabin Number 5, but the developing float is still a rough obstacle course for a person who doesn’t feel sure-footed, and Margy is quick to admit her lack of balance on the logs. When we eventually start installing the deck, the walking surface will be much more stable, and she’ll be able to help with the project then. But for now, she should stay off the new float. Fortunately, she’s good about waiting for almost anything. And her backpack always contains plenty of reading material.
“You can take the boat up to the cabin, and come back and get me later,” I suggest.
“Waste of gas,” she says. “I’ll just stay.”
John is glad to see us, especially when he finds out I’m willing to assist with cabling up the second brow log. But he’s reluctant to accept my offer.
“You’re not dressed for it,” he says. “At least I’m wearing raingear.”
True. My slipper shoes aren’t ideal for working on the logs, and I don’t want to get my favourite jacket dirty. But this should be fairly clean work, since the cable is new, and my shoes won’t be unsafe for the task.
“I can still help,” I say. “This jacket will handle a little rain, and Margy doesn’t mind waiting. She can keep Bro occupied while we work.”
Bro is a bit of a problem in conditions like these. He refuses to come in out of the rain, preferring to hang out near John and get wet rather than sneak under cover. But with Margy here, he’ll be glad to keep her company inside Cabin Number 1.
“I’ve got a fire going,” says John, nodding towards the cabin. “And look what I’ve just done to the spool of cable.”
I glance at the raft that holds the new cable, and notice something that I should have seen when I arrived. The spool is now balanced on its side, raised off the raft by the other empty spool and a log, with a rod through the center. Rather than drag all of the cable off the reel in advance, as we did for the first brow log, we should be able to peel off the cable as needed.
John walks a plank to the raft and prepares the cable for unwinding. This should work well, but I’m amazed that John was able to lift the spool of heavy cable into position all by himself.
John hands me the end of the cable, and asks me to begin pulling. Sure enough, while he guides the spool to make sure it’s steady, the cable rolls off easily. In fact, it rolls too well. If you pull too hard, the spool speeds too fast, unwinding cable that drops deep into the water. As more cable drops downward, the added weight causes the spool to spin faster, careening out of control.
“You need to pull at just the right speed,” John instructs. “Once you get used to it, it’ll be easy.
He’s right. I get used to the pull that’s needed to keep the cable coming, without dropping too much into the water. In a few minutes we’re working our way through the float logs, weaving the cable around them and over the brow log at a fairly rapid pace. The improved cable feed from the spool is a muscle-saver, and within an hour we’re halfway across the float, working in a continuous light rain that’s beginning to soak through my non-waterproof jacket and go-to-town pants.
“We’ll need to jam these logs apart,” says John, pointing to a place where there’s almost no gap. “I can insert wood blocks to keep the spacing between them wide enough. Otherwise, the cable will get snagged.”
While John works on another stitch, I hunt wooden chunks to shove between the logs. As we work farther outward, these blocks will become increasingly important, as the logs tighten against each other in a self-induced attempt to keep the float’s rectangular shape. A small snatch-block winch is roped to the log at the outside end, holding the float square until we can tighten the brow cables. We can loosen the winch a little, but we don’t want to lose the symmetrical shape we’ve already achieved.
Bro hears me rummaging for wood near the cabin, and comes out to see what’s going on. As I retrieve some blocks stacked on the cabin’s deck, Bro watches intently, and then follows me back out onto the new float.
On the way back, carrying an awkwardly balanced pile of blocks, I do the impossible. I step between two logs, lose my balance, and fall forward. The space between the logs is currently only a few inches, but the weight of my body in the gap somehow manages to force the logs apart far enough to engulf both of my feet. I slam down into the water between the logs until my hips stop the descent. I’m unhurt, but my legs dangle below the float in cold October water.
“What in the world?” exclaims John as he hears me crash down between the logs.
Within a few seconds he’s standing beside me to assist, but I have already worked myself upward until only my lower legs are under water, my ankles locked by a log on each side. I sit down on the float, knees bent, unable to extract my feet from the wooden vise.
“We’ll need your chainsaw to cut off my feet,” I say.
“Don’t kid around!” says John. “Are you okay?”
“No problem. Just can’t get my feet out.”
I wiggle around, while John pries the logs apart with a pike pole. My feet come out just fine, but my shoes, socks, and pants are soaked. Since we’ve been working in a light rain for over an hour, the rest of my body isn’t much drier.
“We’ll need to get you out of those shoes, and find some dry pants,” says John.
“Actually, I’m not cold,” I say. “Just a bit squishy in the feet. I can keep going until we finish this cable.”
I’m pretty good about taking care of myself, and I know there’s risk of getting thoroughly chilled now that I’m soaked. But the air is warm, and my feet aren’t cold in my thick, wet socks, plus there’s heated warmth in the cabin if I need it. So I decide to continue.
We go back to work. I walk across the logs with a squish-squish in my shoes, while John reiterates his surprise that anyone could fall through the gap in the logs.
“I just can’t believe it. How did you do that?”
“Good aim,” I reply.
We make our way through the remaining stitches of cable, finishing off with multiple loops around each end of the brow log. It’s a strange job to tackle on a rainy day, but we’ve finished the initial cabling of the second brow log. Besides, if you don’t work in the rain during the autumn, you might not work at all.
* * * * * * *
* * * * *
Chapter 5
Numbers 1 through 4
Depending on how you count, John has already built (or rebuilt) at least four cabins. His talent for building things was probably first expressed when he began building forts as a youngster in the Kootenays, when he lived with his parents in Fruitvale. At the age of 12, along with his older brother, Dave, he constructed a 6-foot square tree fort in a tamarack tree. Together with another of his brothers, Rick, John constructed a land-based cabin behind their house. Though only 8-feet by 10-feet in footprint, it was a more traditional dwelling. Not to be outdone by conventional designs, he then progressed to an underground floorplan – a cave-like fort complete with trenches, and covered by dirt and wood.
When John, age 15, moved to Powell River with his family, their new home didn’t include enough acreage to accommodate any cabins, so John moved his construction activities to nearby Haslam Lake where he and Rick built an 8-foot by 10-foot cabin halfway up the lake on the north side. His skills were getting more elaborate now, but it took a boat to get to the construction site. As usual, the real thrill for John was in the building phase rather than the live-in-it process. His goal was met, and he moved on.
This construction history predated my discovery of Powell Lake in 2000, and John never talked much about his cabin accomplishments. In fact, I often had to pry information out of his modest mind. But every time I did get a glimpse of that history, I learned something new and interesting. Thus, when I finally got a chance to drill him on the details, I took full advantage.
* * * * *
One August night, at our campsite at the head of Powell Lake, John and I settle in for some meteor watching. The Perseids Meteor Shower is only two days away from peak, and this should be a good night for dark-sky observing, considering the lack of moonlight and the clarity of the evening. While the twilight is inching towards total darkness, we sit on the boat dock next to our quads, a riding adventure come true. We’ve been talking about hauling a raft with our quads aboard to the Head for years. Now we’re finally here.
After our first day of riding, we’re tired, but well fed. John brings out the potato chips that serve as our dessert, and we sit and talk, awaiting the meteors. I pull out my digital tape recorder, smaller than a mini-camera, and set it on the dock in front of us. John looks at it suspiciously.
“You don’t mind if I record this, do you?” I ask.
“Record what?” he asks with a suspicious tone.
“It’s just a tape recorder. I need to get some background about the cabins you built before I knew you – for my new book about Cabin Number 5. It’s a lot easier to record than take notes. Okay?”
“Guess so. But what don’t you know?”
“Well, I’d like to know more about your background in building cabins, especially those on Powell Lake.”
Thus, our conversation begins. As usual, what I learn is filled with a few surprises.
* * * * *
“So how did you get interested in constructing cabins on the lake?” I ask. “You can’t even see float cabins from the bottom of the lake where the roads end.”
“When I was in high school, Dad had a houseboat, and we’d spend lots of time up the lake. So I saw what was there, and thought I’d like to try building something. At the time, there weren’t any rules about it. You just went in and started building wherever you wanted. No water leases, no taxes, nothing to worry about.
“Dave and I built the first cabin in his backyard, just an experiment really. He had just bought a house, and I found a bunch of old two-by-fours. Scrounged some 45-gallon metal barrels.”
“Metal, not plastic like today’s blue barrels?” I ask.
“The barrels were the cabin foundation, rather than cedar. No brow logs – just metal barrels that I welded together with angle iron in Dave’s yard, like a pontoon. Turned out to be as unstable as hell.
“We towed it down to the lake on Dad’s houseboat trailer, still in pieces. The walls sat down flat on the trailer, and we raised them once we got up the lake.”
“Up the lake, where?” I ask.
“We picked a spot directly across from where Number 5 is now. About where that rental cabin is today. Put it together there. Flat roof, no real deck, except some wood sticking out on the front and back, nothing on the sides. It was freaky – when boats went by, it bobbed like a cork.”
“So it was pretty tiny? And unstable.”
“Ten-by-twelve, with plywood walls. So wobbly that you really couldn’t stay overnight. Dave and I tried it once, since we’d installed bunk beds. He had the top bunk and had to tie himself in with a rope so he wouldn’t fall out.”
“Now that’s wobbly!”
“Later we added some boomsticks on the side, which helped a lot. Kinda’ like outriggers. But then we pretty well blew it off – lost interest and just left it there, until I came back, and Fritz had taken it over.”
“Fritz? You mean the Fritz of Three-Mile Bay?”
“Yuh. He was new to the lake then, and found our cabin. It was pretty deteriorated by then, so he started taking the walls down, and used the platform to set up a tent.”
“So what did you do?”
“Well, there was a bit of a confrontation. I said: ‘Hey, buddy, this is my bloody float and my spot.’ And I remember his exact words.”
“Which were?...”
“If you neglect, I collect.”
That sure sounds like Fritz.
“But he took his stuff and left,” says John. “And I used the spot to build Number 1.”
* * * * *
John purchased the float foundation that was to become Cabin Number 1 when he was only 20 years old, probably the youngest cabin owner on the lake. At the time, he had a new job at the paper mill, and came up with the $1000 needed to buy an old float that was sitting in Haywire Bay.
“It was in pretty bad shape, with trees growing on it like some of the old floats you see at logging docks. But I took it to Mowat Bay and ripped out the trees. Several other float cabins were being built at Mowat at the time. I’d watch other guys building their floats there, putting on brow logs and installing cables. Learned a lot just by watching.”
“So back then, you could just go to Mowat and start building? Needed to get permission from somebody, I suppose.”
“No, didn’t need permission. You’d just do it, and nobody said anything. At the time, most of the cabins on the lake were owned by guys from the mill, and there really weren’t any rules to worry about.”
From Mowat Bay, John towed the float to the spot where the old barrel float was located, and began constructing the cabin.
“Dad helped a lot, both with the labor and ideas for the design. We’d talk things over as we built, changing as we went along. In less than a year, we had the exterior complete. Then I towed it across to where Cabin Number 5 is now. ‘Course, I don’t call it that.”
“You mean you don’t call it ‘Cabin Number 5.’
“Well, sometimes I do, because you do. But usually I just call it ‘the new cabin.’ Can’t really call it Number 1, because Number 1 is down at Number 4 now.”
It gets complicated, but I still call it Number 5.
“We finished the interior within another year. Worked out pretty good.”
* * * * *
John negotiated a reasonable deal with a friend at the paper mill, which resulted in his next cabin, Number 2, but it needed a complete renovation. This cabin site at Hole in the Wall is one of the most picturesque small bays on the lake, directly across from my current cabin (Number 3).
For the reconstruction project, John towed the cabin to Kinsman’s Beach, adjacent to the Shinglemill. While completely gutting the cabin and installing new brow logs and cables, John found old studs that were dated 1944. His brother, Rick, helped with the renovations, including installation of a new roof. Then they towed the cabin back to Hole in the Wall for completion of the interior.
John began renting Number 2, along with Number 1, and was ready to move on to a third cabin. His construction efforts were really a goal within themselves, but renting gave it an official purpose, which could more properly be considered an excuse.
* * * * *
Cabin Number 3 began as a logging company float, and John converted it into my present and beloved home. The brow logs were too small for John’s needs, so he replaced them during the initial phase of construction adjacent to Cabin Number 1.
“It had been used as a work float, with choppers landing on it to carry off shake blocks from Goat Island. Dad and Rick helped me right from the beginning, and construction moved along pretty fast.”
“When we finished the exterior, I towed the cabin to Chippewa Bay, but that didn’t work out. The water was way too rough, even in the summer. I’d go up there when I was working on the kitchen, and the waves would be rocking everything silly. So I moved it over to Goat Island.”
This location, near Hole in the Wall, is next to a stream and waterfall. John had hopes of harnessing the stream for water and electrical power, but his stay there was short. After only a few weeks, he decided that passing tugs and their barges (and log booms) came too close to the cabin. If you’re going to have a private cabin, it shouldn’t be on the main highway.
Thus, my cherished home found it’s final spot on Powell Lake. And I plan to never move it again.
* * * * *
“So you built Number 3 primarily for rental, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Yes, but I never rented it much before you bought it from me.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard. It seems like everyone I talk to says they rented Number 3 at one time or the other.”
“People like to brag a lot,” replies John.
“Well, Number 3 is worth bragging about.”
“But they probably get it confused with Number 2, which I rented a lot more often.”
“Which brings us to Number 4,” I remind him.
“The Tool Box,” he says.
“Right. You built it as a place-holder.”
“I claimed the spot before the government moved in and started telling us where we could go. I put the Tool Box there because I knew that spot would be worth some money someday. And I was right.”
“But now the Tool Box is at Number 5,” says John.
“I thought you called Number 5 ‘the new cabin.’”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes, I do. Here’s the real order as you come up the lake: Number 4 (which now holds Cabin Number 1), Number 5 (which used to be Number 1), then Number 2, and finally Number 3 (which is my cabin). It’s all perfectly logical.
* * * * * * *
* * * * *
Chapter 6
Blueprints of the Mind
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