As my wife and I settled in for a few days’ holidays at a lakeside cottage in Northern Canada last week, I could see that this was not going to be like four days and three nights at the Ramada Inn. Not that our friends’ three-bedroom cabin isn’t modern or clean. In fact, it’s in great shape, with new siding and a wonderful steam bath built on a rock jutting out into the water of a beautiful lake.
But one important feature distinguishes their cottage from the well-known chain of hotels. No Ramada that I’m aware of makes use of a two-hole “outhouse” located about 100 yards from the front doors as do our friends at their get-away property in the bush. Now, despite the fact that I was blessed by being born in a time well after the invention of the indoor flush toilet, I am not, on principle, opposed to the two-holer, which served people well for hundreds of years and is still in use by many today. In fact, there’s something kind of earthy and natural about the whole process which I’m sure must be much more environmentally friendly than the various chemicals thrown down modern toilets to keep them clean.
No, the outhouse is not my natural enemy, as such, unless it is combined with a few other complicating factors. In the case of our friends’ cottage, it is located in a territory which is inhabited not only by humans desperate to get out of the city in the summertime, but by bears that I imagine wish humans would stay in the city where they belong. But even bears and outhouses pose no big threat provided a third element is included, that being the middle of the night.
Jolted awake at 3 a.m. by that old, familiar feeling of urgency that just can’t be wished away, I lay there reviewing my options. Realizing I had none, I dressed and headed for the cabin door, the outhouse for to find. Suddenly, in the darkness of the wooded surroundings, the outhouse which had seemed only a stone’s throw away during the day, had apparently been moved another half-mile or so down the lane. To get there, I would have to pass several perfect bear-hiding objects such as trees, rocks, cars and shacks. This I would do knowing my doom awaited me in the form of the biggest, meanest bear in the country that was obviously hiding behind the outhouse itself and which had a thing about middle-age guys with knobby knees, glasses and fragile bowels. Worse yet, it occurred to me a bear might actually be waiting cleverly right there for me in the two-holer when I opened the wooden door. And even if I survived that surprise, I would not want to follow a bear into a bathroom which I imagine he or she could foul up real bad.
So, with all this on my mind, I had to venture out into the black, still night, treading lightly so as to not make a sound which might be attractive to a hungry bear or that would conceal from my attention the sudden approach of a bear leaping onto my back. As I approached the outhouse, the moment of truth arrived. Flinging open the door, I could see I’d be sharing the facilities with only a few hungry mosquitoes and a spider or two. Unless, of course, a bear ripped open the door while I was in there, which I could see was a distinct possibility.
Three nights in a row, this scene was played out with my last nocturnal trip as scary as my first. Of course, I was given brave assurances that bears never venture into the camps day or night but I wondered why, on my radio as I drove out of the bush on Friday, a local expert was giving advice on what to do if you come face to face with one. Now why give important information about something that never happens?
One thing’s sure. They don’t hand out tips on bears at the Ramada Inn where outhouses are not a common feature.
©1993 Jim Hagarty
