Of Cabins and Summers on the Lake

Squirrels on the deck of the Stringam cabin.

We loved staying at our friends' cabin in Waterton Lakes Park.

So much so that my Dad finally felt we should have our own.

Cabin, I mean.

And the rest of us, picturing days happily spent on the lake, were very easily convinced.

He scouted around for a nice piece of property.

And found one.

On St. Mary Lake, just outside of Glacier National Park, Montana – across the border from the ranch.

It was truly beautiful.

Clear, icy-cold, blue water.

And I do mean icy. Brrr.

Pure air.

Lots of trees.

We fell in love.

The only thing missing was the . . . cabin.

No problem.

Dad would build it.

He chose a design and ordered materials.

They were duly delivered.

And immediately stolen.

Our cabin plans were almost abandoned before they even got off the ground.

So to speak.

But, finally, Dad took a deep breath and ordered some more.

They came.

And this time, they stayed.

He moved in a small travel trailer and we took up residence.

Then began to prepare the land.

It was hot, hard work - cutting down a few of the trees and tearing out brush.

Sweat ran freely.

I know.

Because I was watching carefully, can of black cherry pop in one hand and hot dog in the other.

But before you begin to think I was entirely useless, I must point out that I helped carry some of the rocks over to the lake to help construct our boat dock.

Small rocks.

Really small rocks.

Okay, I was useless.

Before too long, Dad and my brothers had cleared a spot large enough for our cabin.

I don't remember much of the building apart from the sounds of hammering and sawing and the wonderful smell of fresh-cut lumber.

Mom kept me near her.

Across the road from the action.

My reputation for getting in the way was obviously well known.

Moving on . . .

The cabin went up magically.

In no time, we had a master bedroom where my oldest sister could sit and tell us scary stories.

Two smaller bedrooms with bunk beds for the smaller kids to fall out of.

Which they did.

And a wonderful kitchen/dining/living room where Mom could make the food magic happen.

Mmm. Food.

Oh, and there was also a big, open fireplace . . . thing.

I think that, technically, it was a wood stove.

But it was screened on all sides.

Wonderful for gathering around on a cool summer evening.

For visiting.

Something my family excelled at.

The cabin had huge windows facing the lake.

And a large deck.

Another favourite place.

Where we could sit and watch the water.

And dream.

Something else I excelled at.

We spent several summers at the lake.

I remember evenings on the deck, looking out over the water and just breathing in the glorious air.

Boating.

Splashing around in the frigid water.

Icy cold cans of pop out of the lake.

Games played beside a snapping fire.

Wiener/marshmallow roasts.

Hide and seek in the trees.

Ghost stories.

Visit with the neighbours. (Once, a for-real professional sheepherder drove his flock right past the cabin and we got to see the inside of his wagon.)

It was wonderful.

But it ended.

Several times, when we weren't in residence, the cabin was broken into and vandalized.

The last time, someone smashed the large picture window, leaving blood everywhere.

Dad replaced the window and promptly sold the cabin.

Too bad.

Because it was wonderful way to spend the summer.

There is a codicil.

A year or so after my Dad sold the cabin, a good friend of his stopped him on the street, shook a finger in his face and told him what a bad boy he was.

Bewildered, my Dad frowned at his friend. “What are you talking about?”

The man grinned. “We were boating on the [St. Mary's] lake and decided to drop in and visit with you and Enes. Once we got there, we realized that you weren't home, but I remembered where you hid the key, so I opened the door and we went in to see if you had left any pop in the fridge.” The man shook his head. “I can't tell you how surprised I was to find it full of beer!”

My parents were well known for their tee-totalling habits.

Dad laughed. “I guess you didn't hear that I sold that cabin.”

The man's mouth dropped open.

“Yeah. A year or so ago.”

“So . . . it's not your cabin?”

“Right.”

“So . . . breaking and entering.”

“Right.”

Even when it no longer belonged to us, the cabin continued to entertain.

I miss it.

Irrigation 101 - An Introductory Course

Irrigation. So simple, a child could do it.

The Stringam Ranch sits in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River.

In the driest part of Southern Alberta.

The driest.

Now, I know that residents from Medicine Hat will try to argue the point but don't listen to them.

After all, they come from a place named 'Medicine Hat'.

Enough said.

Most of the land around the ranch is used as pasture.

Nothing else will grow there.

But the acres immediately beside the river, the 'hay flats', have much more potential.

They can be irrigated.

I'm sure you've seen the giant wheel-move irrigation systems capable of watering an entire quarter-section of land in one pivot. Enormous constructions that transport themselves in a wide arc from an end point and effectively bring the gift of life to whole crops at once.

All at the push of a button.

It's fascinating.

It's wondrous.

It wasn't what we Stringams had.

Our system was . . . erm . . . modest.

And connected, disconnected and moved by hand.

Twice a day.

Our favorite chore.

Not.

Morning and evening, the pump would be silenced. The 16 foot lengths of aluminum pipe disconnected and drained one-by-one. And then moved to the next position 40 feet away and reconnected.

It was Dad, Jerry and George's job, mainly.

But I helped.

Once.

And therein lies a tale.

So to speak.

Early one summer evening, because Dad and Jerry were busy doing other things, Dad asked me to go and help George move pipe.

I stared at him.

Me? Do you know what you're asking?

Dad turned away, so I shrugged and followed my brother into the lower hay flat.

He shut off the pump.

I watched.

He walked over to the line.

I followed.

He unhooked the first pipe.

Again I watched.

He unhooked the second pipe.

He was really good at this.

He unhooked the third pipe.

I noticed that my light-blue pants looked white in the fading light.

He unhooked the fourth pipe.

We were having a beautiful sunset. Wonderful shades of red and orange against the clear blue of the sky.

He unhooked the fifth pipe.

I stopped looking at the sky and noticed a gopher nearby. Cheeky little guy was just sitting there. Watching us.

He unhooked the sixth pipe.

I chased the gopher into its burrow.

He unhooked the seventh pipe.

I tripped over the sixth pipe on my way back.

He unhooked the eighth pipe.

"George, is this going to take much longer? I'm tired."

He unhooked the ninth pipe.

And beat me with it.

He didn't, really, but I'm sure he wanted to.

By the time 'we' were done moving pipe and had the pump going again, one of us was sweating profusely.

I'll give you a hint.

It wasn't me.

After that, George never allowed me to come with him to move pipe.

Something about me being worse than useless.

Go figure.

My River

Our River - almost ready for swimming . . .

Our playground flowed right around the main Stringam Ranch buildings.

To the adult residents of the ranch, it was the South Fork of the Milk River.
To us, it was a muddy, murky paradise. Our entertainment. Our recreation. Our playmate.
It provided a solid skating surface in the winter and a wonderful swimming pool in summer.
In spring through fall, it was an endless source of educational fun as we hunted snakes and frogs. Tried to trap unwary fish. And generally made life miserable for any denizen so unfortunate as to capture our attention.
I learned to skate there. What is that little dictum that states that the hardest part about learning to skate is the ice?
That would apply to me.
Or at least to my backside.
But I digress . . .
I learned to swim there.
And I wish I could swim there, still.
On a hot summer afternoon, my siblings and I would invariably be found in the milky depths of our river.
I can remember exactly how the water looked - billions of grains of fine sand hanging suspended as the rays of sunlight shone through it.
I can remember how it smelled. Wet mud and fresh water and things growing.
And I can remember how it felt. Cool and soft as it slid across one's nearly naked little body.
The current was slow and sluggish, but still strong enough prove a challenge when swimming against it. In fact, only my eldest brother, Jerry could make any headway. The rest of us tried manfully, or girlfully (is that a word?) as the case may be, to keep up.
We couldn't.
But we did flail with purpose and, finally, I was able to at least hold my position.
It was a time of peace. When one's siblings were truly one's best friends. We watched over each other, fishing the smaller siblings out if they got in over their heads and keeping our St. Bernard, Mike from drowning anyone as he tried desperately to save them.
From time to time, the chief lifeguard, my Mom, would appear at the top of the cliff beside the house and survey the area, counting heads and noting the general state of her six offspring. Then she would wave and disappear.
And we would go back to whatever she had interrupted.
It was a blissful way to spend the summer.
Sure, there were chores that had to be done. Acres of garden to hoe. Cattle to drive. Calves to brand. Feeding. Milking. Haying. Fencing. Mowing. Harvesting.
But for those few hours every afternoon, we had no duties. No pressures.
Just Chris' radio blaring out whatever was considered the day's top hits. The soft sand. The sunlight on the milky water.
And each other.
We were right.
It was paradise.

My Summer of '64

The summer I turned nine was supposed to be the most exciting of my life. And it was.
For all of the wrong reasons.

First, the bridge.
Just a few yards down the road from our ranch gates, across the south fork of the Milk River, stood an aged iron bridge, painted black.

It had great metal arches over it and many intricate bends and joints that invited exploration and/or concealment. On a hot summer afternoon, one could climb under the bridge, swing on the rope which dangled temptingly and drop down into the cool water below.

We kids on the ranch thought it was our playground.

Very early in the spring of 1964, great machines and earth-movers began to assemble next to our beloved bridge.

And a large crew of men accompanied them.

For days, we watched from what dad deemed a 'safe distance'. (Actually, to him, a safe distance was the top of the machinery hill, but who could see anything from there? And who was listening?)

Of course, if I'd realized then that this crew was actually there to replace our great and marvelous playground, I probably wouldn't have been quite so enthusiastic.

As it was, this was almost more excitement than my nine-year-old self could handle.

Life just didn't get any better.

They toiled away on it for several months.

Then, the movie crew.

Dad announced that he had some really exciting news.
A movie crew was coming to the ranch to film.
Movie crew?
Suddenly everyone began to act strangely.
The hired men actually polished their boots. And availed themselves of the showers and laundry services.

My older sister spent hours in front of the mirror, trying new 'looks' and fashions.

My brothers practiced lines from westerns.

Mom, ever practical, began bringing in truckloads of food.
I got in everyone's way. Okay, this was normal, but I didn't want you to think I wasn't proactive. The ranch was suddenly antiseptically clean. (Well, not quite, but you get the picture . . .)
The expected day grew closer. And closer.
I stopped sleeping. Well, actually, Mom stopped sleeping, but I did feel sorry for her.
The anticipation was palpable.
The day arrived. The movie crew didn't.


Rising water



And finally . . .

But everyone's stretched nerves and feelings of anticipation were not wasted. The movie crew might not have shown up.
But the flood did.

Oh, Dad had been keeping an eye on our river as it . . . grew.

Finally, it became clear that our quiet little trickle had officially turned into . . . something much bigger. Something huge and brown and scary that threatened everything in its path.
Including us.

And several of the bridge-building machines that had been sitting placidly in the shallow river beneath the bridge, but I didn't think about them.

My motto has always been 'panic first, think afterwards'. And it has served me well.

Banished to the balcony overlooking our back yard, I alternately cried or moaned as Dad, my two brothers and assorted hired men struggled with shovels and mud.

The normally milky, now chocolate-brown river crept nearer and nearer.

Yes, that's our yard -
there's usually a road, (and a cliff)
between us and the river.

It topped its banks. It started flowing across the lower pasture. Higher. Higher. Finally, it reached our yard and began lapping at the tiny bulwark of sand bags. The barricade that had seemed so huge only moments before.

Dad and his crew worked frantically, trying to reinforce what now looked like a pathetic little mud pie, against all that water.

All day, they worked.

And finally, the waters peaked. Then slowly began to recede.

We lost part of our yard. A small part.

The bridge crew had some equipment damaged, but nothing that couldn't be repaired or replaced.

Unfortunately, the same wasn't true for the rest of Alberta and Montana, wherever the Milk River flowed. Communities suffered millions of dollars in damages and at least 30 people lost their lives. In fact, the June, 1964 flood remains in the history books as one of the greatest disasters ever to hit Montana.

But the waters receded.

Back on the ranch, everything wasn't as pristine as it had once been, but was soon put to rights.

Our new bridge was finished and the old one demolished and hauled away. The crew left.

We kids scampered around on the cement marvel for a short while, but soon discovered that its smooth surfaces provided few hiding places and absolutely nowhere to hang a rope.

It was abandoned.



Old bridge, new bridge
and very, very wet equipment

Often, our family would stand on the balcony and watch the river as it curved gently around the ranch.

Once more, it was the calm, quiet flow that watered our stock and our crops, cooled us on hot days, and supported us in our floundering efforts to swim. Once more, it was the color of the sediment that gave it its milky hue and its name.

Eventually, I even lost my fear of it.

Yes, for me, the summer of 1964 was an exciting, memorable time.

Sometimes, I wish I could forget it.