No road comes to my house. No driveway, no
sidewalk. My truck is parked seven-kilometres away, across the
lake in summer, at the end of a forest trail in winter. I love
it this way.
No stinky cars in the yard, no waking to
motors warming up in the morning, no reminders of the noisy
gasoline-dependant world that lives so far away from
here.
That is not to say I don't use noisy, stinky,
gasoline-dependant vehicles. I do use a motorboat to cross the
lake (with a four stroke engine, so it's less noisy and stinky
and gas-guzzling.) And in winter I drive a snow machine to get
the groceries across that forest trail. But these crossings of
lake and woods are not a daily occurrence. For six days out of
seven I can forget they exist.
It is the quiet of life far from roads that
is most appealing: to wake in the morning and hear loons (even
in November, they have not all gone south yet), or the sound of
rain gently tapping on the roof, or the wind in the
trees.
Without the noise of machinery nearby, my
hearing has become quite acute. This time of year, the ravens
are making a very quiet bloink kind of vocalization. I hear
this while walking in the woods, and look up to see them
sunning it the tops of the dead trees. Then they will launch
into the sky, and soar in the afternoon breeze.
There is a certain security of living far
from the easy access of roads. First of all, living so far from
the hydro grid, we have little worth stealing. And secondly,
without a road to the door, it's so hard to get here and carry
things away, who would bother?
Yes, getting supplies in is a lot more work
than driving up to the kitchen door to bring in the groceries.
But how often do we have lots of supplies to bring? Not
very.
More often than not, it is just ourselves
that need to be transported across the lake to go to town, or
meetings, etc. Sure we'll pick up some groceries, but it is not
all that much trouble to get them into and out of the
boat.
One of the true joys of living so far from
the end of the road is in the journey from there to here. Why
else would I go out for a boat ride at dawn in November? How
many people even still have their boats in the water at this
time of year? How few have seen the stars on a cold, calm,
clear autumn night from the middle of the lake? What are the
chances I would choose to go out there if I didn't need
to?
When I think of all the phenomenal beauty of
the lake and forest at these many times of day and night, in
each season of the year, I think of the things I never would
have made the opportunity to experience if the road came to my
door.
Northern lights are especially dazzling in
these cold, dark months. And I still remember the brilliance of
the comets a decade ago. Most of our sightings were while
coming home at night, summer, fall and winter.
If someone offered to build a road to my door
- I would surely decline. I see no advantages, only the loss of
the pristine beauty, quiet and security of my forest
home.
Viki Mather lives by a lake near Sudbury.
