Deep River Days

The view from rocky beach outside the small cabin

The clean, crisp air of the Upper Ottawa Valley wields a mighty influence that doesn’t cease when its visitors sleep. I dreamed deeper up here. Even with the snores and occasional bodily noises of other men, sleep clawed back quickly after every waking moment. My sleep always lightens as the night progresses.

In the Orphanage (the nickname for the cabin’s second floor), I woke to total darkness twice, the first hint of blue breaking in, pale light revealing the river, and finally a sunny glow. Moving out of the covers, a naked coldness grabbed at me. Beneath them, I had warmth. But the sensation of cold quickened me, granted me energy.

For me, the urge to stay beneath the covers died when sunlight breached the trees then struck the eastern window, lighting up the quiet room with the intensity of Sauron’s flaming eye. Without the One Ring to remove my finger, I could descend the stairs to start the day.

Downstairs I whispered greetings to those already awake, then slipped outside the cabin. After a walk, I would pour an herbal tea to warm my throat. But only after a walk. What better time to follow the path along the lakes? Moose sightings have occurred in its waters, and viewing the giant yet elusive ungulate would top any Canada trip (unless the Northern Lights flared up, which they did not, coming no closer than Hudson Bay on those four days). 

The cabin’s namesake had two shallow lakes dug into the hillside above the cabin. Bait fish lived in the first, trout hid in the water plants of the second. While the path required little to follow, the trees had grown in, forcing me to duck for much of its length. At edge of the first lake, the path turned into a stone spillway as water dribbled down to Ottawa in the form of a small creek.

Looking east from the cabin

On the first full day, a blocky red boat cruised to a set of random buoys. At first glance it appeared to be a house boat, but its mission was strictly commercial. From the boat, divers descended hundreds of feet into the opaque waters to tag logs. When the local timber industry thrived, log booms packed hundreds of trunks onto the river. Some sank. All of it was old growth timber, its value making dives into depths worthwhile. They spent all Thursday moored to that spot in the river. Later, Ben showed me old river pictures, with logs covering huge portions of its surface.

By late morning, the east wind kicked up whitecaps on the river. A canoe crossing would be treacherous, especially with my paddling skills. This pattern would repeat every morning, with the river relatively placid for a few hours until the wind riled it up.

Sitting on the porch, I struck up a conversation with Phil, one of the other guys. The cabin and its intimacy made talking with strangers closer. After all, we all slept a few beds away from each other. There was no reason to be standoffish; we all came out here to enjoy the rustic environment, so we just enjoyed the company.

Koby, Mac and June's dog and a great source of warmth

While we talked, Ben’s cousin June brought out a plate of blueberry muffins, quite possibly the best blueberry muffins Phil or I ever tasted. Midway through one, I craved another. June is a retired professional chef who once led the kitchen at the Ohio governor’s mansion. She deployed her kitchen skills at the cabin. Her culinary skill ensured every meal under the cabin roof was world-class.  June and Mac, her husband, brought their dog Koby, who growled when we entered but enjoyed sitting on random laps, a wonderful bonus on cold mornings around the cabin.

That would be the first of many fruitful riverside conversations. The talk just rolled on. Anyone could join and rejoin without repercussion. Politics, Vietnam, ethics, sports religion, family stories, family issues, watching the moon landing on TV from the cabin, the death penalty, life in general– few topics felt forbidden. To respect the privacy of what was said, none of it will be repeated here.

Ben and I departed on a brief trip into Deep River, entry signs proudly touting its role as “Canada’s Nuclear Pioneer.” The world at-large might only know Deep River through David Lynch movies – it gets name-dropped in Mulholland Drive. Unless you’ve heard of Deep River, you’ll never notice the reference. Once you do, it cannot be avoided.

 Deep River’s dining options have a few peaks but many valleys. We stopped at the Bear’s Den for a bite to eat, easily one of the peaks. It was an easy choice with a strong menu. Set in a motel, the dining room echoed with French-Canadian accents. We each had nut brown ale from Whitewater Brewing, the Ottawa Valley’s only craft brewer. On autopilot, I thoroughly enjoyed their bison burger, as I do whenever I eat bison. Every building on the route was a landmark for cabin visitors. We stopped into a little trading posts seated next to the venerable chip wagon (fries soaked in malt vinegar or poutine are a tradition). The dairy famous for its banana sundae sat derelict.

Mmm, Canada-only snacks.

We stopped at the Value Mart, whose name doesn't do credit to the full-service grocery with a tremendous cheese selection and bakery. Here I took my chance to explore the crazy potato chip flavors unavailable in the U.S. - ketchup, poutine, all dressing, Canadian cheeseburger and too many others to list. I also returned with some maple cream cookies, the sole food item to make it all the way back to Nashville.

Along with some retail, hotels and restaurants along Highway 17, Deep River has a small downtown with commercial buildings ringing a central complex of municipal, police and fire facilities. We stopped into an LCBO for some Canadian craft beers to augment what came across the border. In the course of walking the main commercial blocks, we saw Asian, Indian Sikh and Middle Eastern residents, an unexpected show of diversity.

Sunday we walked through Deep River, this time exploring the waterfront. A few people fished from the banks. The riverfront path slipped into a woodland path then back onto a city street Along with a dozen house boats anchored in its harbor, the town has a sizable marina.

Overlook of the damn, mostly blocked by pines.

Near the cabin we came to an overlook that offered short glimpses of the dam and The Hydro. In the adjacent fields sat a mothballed nuclear facility, Canada’s first. The reactor had been retired nearly 30 years ago then encased in concrete.

Even from a distance, the security measures still ran thick on this derelict. The stigma of nuclear power didn’t snare me; the Canadian government silenced this plant long ago. Strangely, the plant felt like a natural part of this valley. The Laurentians were among the world’s oldest mountains, but the 50-year-old plant seemed like it had been in this landscape just as long.

Downtown Deep River, with Steven Seagull

We stopped at another trading post far more eccentric than the first. Ben pointed out the enclosures that once housed animals behind the store. Inside all types of wares were sold, from animal socks (I bought three pairs for Nancy) to a polar bear skin rug (when the clerk looked away I had to run my hand through the fur). Knives, First Nations carvings, used books, winter clothing and myriad items filled the shelves and display cases. I stuck with the socks and a few postcards.

The afternoon brought the first signs of another purpose of the cabin visit – shutting it down for the winter and spring. We helped Dennis load several boats into the boathouse beneath the garage.

Later we would help any way we could. I was the weakest link among the men pulling in the dock and the barrels that buoyed it in the river. Asking Dennis about how I could help, I ended up using tarps to secure the woodpile. I only hope that in May, they find it relatively undamaged by the elements, which can be severe on the Ottawa. Anything we could do to help ease closing down the cabin, we did.

Deep River harbor

One family member told us of a winter sojourn decades ago. His car could not come close to entering the cabin drive, and he had to stay at a motor court down the road. A few days of cross-country skiing in the Deep River winter proved too much, and he headed back. The wind definitely signaled the start of a harsher season, and I could only imagine how brutal winter might be.

One evening Ben and I took a walk on the nearby streets, crunching through the woods and visiting a boat launch where the log recovery folks operated. The ramp was lined with recovered logs pulled from the Ottawa’s depths. We flushed a turkey from the brush near the road. Aside from chattering chipmunks, wildlife was scarce.

This guy ... just look at him.

After dinner, star-watching was a must. No matter how many times it happens, the rise of the Milky Way never disappoints this far from city lights. Even on a hazy night, the clouds cannot blot out the stars as brutally as the city does. On a cloudy Deep River evening, we still saw the rich band of galactic stars, satellites meandering horizon to horizon, and meteors flaring and dying. Aside a fire pit, staring at the stars enlivened my neurons. I went to bed each night full of thought, tired but fulfilled. The fire pit always went out in the middle of the night, but sparks of Deep River fueled a deeper fire.