This is a lengthy short story, so you might want to print it out to read as a bed-time story.
If you've been camping or spent a few weeks at the cottage this summer then you'll get a giggle out of these two best friends as they try to rescue the outhouse.....
OUTHOUSE ON THE MOVE
“The outhouse,” declared Mike, “is gone.”
“What do you mean gone? As in wrecked?” Scott asked with a frown.
“Gone. As in not there anymore.” Mike replied staring out the cottage window.
Scott joined him and surveyed the flood damage for himself. It was late Friday afternoon and they had just arrived at the cottage for the weekend. The water was still at least a foot deep between the camp and the dock. The outhouse was definitely not where it used to be. It was, as Mike said, gone. They looked at each other, grinned wickedly, then turned back to the window. Mike Malone and Scott Countryman had been best friends since grade seven and neither could remember a spring flood this bad.
“Where do you think it is?” Mike asked.
“At the bottom of the lake I guess. I told you it was dumb to build an outhouse there. That spot is too low.”
“It was the perfect spot.” Mike replied defensively. “It was half way between the camp and the dock so if you were on the dock you didn’t have to come all the way up here. If you were up here you didn’t have to go a mile into the woods. You sure didn’t complain last summer after you got food poisoning from the sausages.”
Scott groaned with disgust. He didn’t want to remember the sausages. He had never been so sick in all his thirty-seven years. “Well anyway, we have to mark the hole somehow.” He said. “Do you remember exactly where it was?” The muddy flood water had covered the hole completely. There was no way of telling where it was.
“I think it was almost halfway. Maybe closer this way than toward the dock.”
“You think? I’m glad it will be you out there trying to find it and not me.”
Mike thought about it for a minute. “I’ll just use a stick and push it in the ground before I step. If it goes all the way down then I’ll know I’ve found it.”
“Or you you’ll be swimming in it!” Scott laughed and grabbed his camera from the table. He waved it menacingly in Mike’s face.
Shortly after, they found a long stick, tied a red dish towel to one end and Mike set out in rubber boots to find the hidden septic hole. Scott retreated back inside the camp and watched from the window with the camera ready.
Poke . . . step . . . poke . . . step . . . poke . . . step. The progress was slow and the water in some spots almost flooded over the tops of Mike’s boots. Several times he had to do a little dance to keep his balance. Inside, Scott laughed and wished he had a video camera instead of a still camera. Poke, step. Poke, step. Eventually a poke went deep and Mike turned to the window and gave a thumbs up with a satisfied grin. He planted the end of the pole firmly in the hole and carefully made his way further out to the dock. He had an idea. When he built the outhouse three years ago, he had anticipated the winter winds and used a lot of Styrofoam sheets to line the walls. It was his opinion that the outhouse wasn’t at the bottom of the lake. It had probably floated off somewhere. He went to the end of the dock to get a better view. Looking west he saw nothing, but looking east, on the other side of the point, he could just make out something in the water. Venturing carefully across the rocks, he made his way over. The outhouse was there all right, bobbing up and down with the sway of the waves. It was on its side about three hundred feet out. It would be difficult, he reasoned, but possible to bring it back. He couldn’t wait to tell Scott.
“We can use the aluminum boat.” Explained Mike over a dinner of franks and beans. “We’ll row out in the morning, attach a rope to it and tow it in. If we throw a couple of lines over some branches, we can pull it upright and set it back down over the hole.”
“We’d better build a base for it first. That way we can secure it so this won’t happen every spring.” Scott suggested.
“Great idea. I’ll get some logs and cut them to make a box. We can raise it a couple of feet. That should hold it good,” added Mike.
Later that evening, with the wood stove roaring and keeping the cottage warm, they played several games of cribbage. On a nail by the wood stove, Mike’s wool socks hung to dry. The water didn’t come over the top of his boots but as it turned out, they had holes in them. His feet were blue from the cold water and he’d boiled a pan of water on the stove to warm them in. But it didn’t deter him in the least from his plan to rescue the outhouse. He was proud of it and wanted it back. “I’ll just wear plastic bags inside them tomorrow” he explained to Scott. They turned off the propane lights near midnight and retired to their rooms. The wood stove, loaded with extra logs for the night, roared and sizzled comfortably, filling the camp with a nostalgic smoky smell.
Scott woke to a shrill scream Saturday morning. He glanced at the clock and realized he had slept in. It was shortly after ten. The scream he reasoned, coming fully awake, had come from the front of the camp. He went flying to the living room window ignoring the cold floor on his bare feet. The wood stove had long since burnt out. He was shocked to see several women in front. Five were standing ankle-deep in the still flooded property. The water had receded somewhat during the night. The sixth woman, and the source of the scream, was only visible from her neck up. The rest of her body was hidden below the flood water, deep in the hole. She was thrashing about wildly and stirring up the bottom.
“Oh no.” Scott said to himself. “This can’t be happening!”
The other women were backing away like they had seen snakes. One of them grabbed a tree and held her stomach, apparently the first to realize what the hole was. They moved away faster as each became aware of the situation, leaving the woman in the hole to her own resources. With her arms waving madly and a volley of cuss words echoing across the water, she also became aware of the contents of the hole. Instinctively she brought her legs up and began treading water.
“Help! Someone help me!” The woman begged, near hysterics.
Scott ran for the door, yelling for Mike as he went. “Get up! We got trouble!”
Dressed only in his boxer shorts, patterned with yellow smiley faces, he ran down the porch stairs and through the water. He was oblivious to the cold and the shocked faces watching him.
“Hang on. I’ll get you out” He said to the terrified lady.
He was only six feet away from her when he slipped in the muck and slid on his rear end the rest of the way, dirty water spraying in all directions. He landed with a splash in the hole where he knocked the woman below the surface. She came up gagging and screaming blue murder. Not understanding that he was there to help, she hit him hard in the jaw. Scott added his own loud cuss words to hers.
“Stop it lady!” He yelled into her red face. “I’m trying to get you out!”
Mike was on the deck by now, dressed in scrubs, and scratching his head in wonder. Maybe it was just a dream he thought with amusement, but better get the camera just in case.
Scott, with his bare feet planted firmly in the gooey muck, managed to get a secure hold on the woman. He blindly heaved her up and out the water-filled hole. She landed with an indignant grunt and stood up to join her friends. A nearby branch gave him the leverage to haul himself out but the weight of the water pulled at his boxers. The women were already heading to the deck and missed the brief moment when they slipped embarrassingly to his knees. The camera though, missed nothing.
Mike was innocently handing out towels when Scott came in. Hasty Introductions were made while everyone tried to console the woman from the hole. She was angrier than a bee trapped in a jar and it took several minutes to calm her down. Mrs. Jayne Adams, her name turned out to be. “The wife of the right honorable Judge Abraham Adams” she informed them coolly.
As they dried off and warmed up over coffee and tea, it was learned how the unfortunate incident came about. The women, all in their late fifties, were a hiking group from the local Baptist church. Once a month, usually on a Saturday, they would venture out on a hike. This particular Saturday they had been following the snowmobile trail from Bridgeport Rd. into the lake. The infrequently used trail was difficult to follow but red flags marked the route. Mrs. Adams was in the lead, as she was on every excursion, looking for the next flag to guide them. She spotted the flag that Mike had put up and assumed it to be the next route marker. The women followed close behind, not concerned about the ankle-deep water since dry ground could be seen close by. It was an honest mistake but Mrs. Adams didn’t see it that way.
“It may be private property,” She belittled them, “But you, as the owner, had the responsibility to ensure the safety of anyone who comes on it. Believe me young man, I know the law and I will ensure this is investigated.”
Scott and Mike, resisting the urge to smirk at her righteous indignation , gave sincere apologies but she continued to eye them with suspicion. After the ladies had warmed enough, Scott guided them to the minivan and drove them into Dakota Landing where their cars were waiting in the church parking lot. He heard later, from Jimmy Bean over at the trading post, that Judge Adams had doubled over in laughter when he heard the story. Mrs. Adams didn’t speak to her husband for a week.
Mike was waiting impatiently when Scott returned. A wind had come up and the outhouse had drifted further out. Together, they fetched the aluminum boat from its winter storage behind the shed. Usually this involved a lot of heaving and lifting but the flood made the chore easy. They were able to skim the boat across the flood water, right down to the dock. While Scott went for the oars and life jackets, Mike set out in search of logs to build the base around the outhouse hole. It took both men to lift the logs into place and brace them. The work went fast and they chatted almost nonstop about hockey statistics, a favorite debate. Mike knew more but Scott liked to get him worked up and often made up statistics just to argue about. Whenever there was a lull in the conversation Mike would take up humming tunes. Sometimes he unconsciously sang the words too. He had a good voice and Scott never complained. In fact, Mike had won several regional karaoke competitions and was a bit of a celebrity around town for it.
“You know,” said Scott after nailing the last log, “we’ll have to build some steps now.”
Mike examined the finished base. It was two feet high and a bit crooked but looked sturdy. “No problem bud.” He said. “ When the water is gone, I can use some scrap lumber. Two steps should do it . . . with a patio stone as a landing.” He was proud of his ingenuity.
“Uh huh.” Said Scott doubtfully. He was trying to picture an outhouse that you had to climb up to get into.
“Well let’s go get it!” Mike was excited. He had set up a pulley system through the trees while Scott drove the church ladies into town. It looked like a strange experiment in physics. Ropes and pulleys hung from branches in a spider web fashion. By pulling or loosening the ropes they could hoist the outhouse off its side and then swing it in place on top of the new base. Scott eyed the setup warily. Sometimes Mike’s ideas worked out. Only sometimes. This looked questionable but worth the try. They got in the boat and rowed the short distance around the point. From there they set a straight course to the outhouse. Scott did the rowing with Mike navigating from the bow like a back seat driver. From a distance, Scott thought the outhouse was caught on some rocks beneath the water making it appear it was afloat. But only a few minutes later as they pulled along side the bobbing loo, Scott was amazed to see that it was actually floating.
“Look at that Mike!” Scott exclaimed. “The darn thing really does float!”
“And you thought all that Styrofoam was a waste of time.” Mike snagged the outhouse with an oar and kept them along side while Scott tied a rope through the door.
“Let’s take ‘er home.” Scott said with renewed confidence.
Rowing back to the dock with the heavy outhouse drifting behind took considerable time. The wind had grown stronger and the bulk of the building pulled against them in the waves. They sat side by side, each with an oar, and put all their weight into the task. The shore was only three hundred feet away but they didn’t seem to get any closer. After an hour, and only half the distance covered, Scott suggested they chant the strokes to make sure they were synchronized.
“Stroke!” they yelled in unison and pulled hard on the oars. “Stroke!”
It worked well for a while but their enthusiasm eroded as progress still appeared to be slow. They were both getting tired and fed up. It wasn’t long before Mike was thirsty. They hadn’t thought of bringing anything to drink or eat. The chore wasn’t supposed to take this long. All he could think of was the cold six-pack of Coors in the fridge. It gave him the motivation to get back to shore. “Beer!” he shouted instead of “stroke” and pulled hard on the oar. Scott caught on quick and soon the chant of “Beer” rang out across the lake matching each stroke. “Beer!” . . . stroke . . . ”Beer!” . . . stroke . . . ”Beer!” . . . stroke. They made it to the dock, thirsty and exhausted, two hours later.
After anchoring the floating outhouse to a tree, Scott and Mike went inside for the hard earned beer and some dinner. By the time the table was cleared and the dishes were done, it was too late to haul the outhouse out of the water and start putting it in place. Neither wanted to admit how tired and sore they felt. Tomorrow, it was decided, they would wake up early and get the job done. Scott, thinking of the insurance, had gone out and roped off the hole.
“The ladies from the Methodist church, this time, might come out hiking!” Mike had suggested with a laugh.
Shortly they settled down for a cribbage grudge match under the yellow glow of the propane lamps. The silence and solitude were hypnotic. Just before darkness engulfed the lake, in those few mystical minutes between dusk and full night, the first loons of the season announced their arrival. Their haunting cries reminding both men of summers gone by and the dawn of a new summer. Bedtime came early after Scott skunked Mike four games in a row. The cry of the loons echoed in their minds as they turned off the lights and settled in their beds.
A pillow thrown at his head woke Mike early on Sunday morning. “Get up!” Scott beckoned, “breakfast is ready.”
It was seven a.m. and breakfast was toast and coffee. The day appeared to be bright and warm even at this hour. Birds were chirping and woodpeckers were tapping at a nearby tree. “Let’s get the outhouse back in place and then take the canoe out.” Scott suggested while spreading a thick layer of peanut butter on his toast. It was an annual voyage to paddle along the shoreline each spring, seeing what the thaw had washed ashore. The law of salvage rights applied and whatever they found was theirs. It was an adventure they both looked forward to. Last year they had found a large board, about three feet long by two feet wide, jammed between some rocks on the southern shore. Stapled to the board were several pairs of women’s underwear. Stapled! There was a lot of speculation around the bonfires last summer about the owner but nothing was ever proved. It was solicitously noted however, that Old Man MacKinnon didn’t come out to his cottage much that summer.
“Go left!” Mike shouted shortly after breakfast as he tried to direct the lowering of the outhouse onto the base.
“My left or your left?” Scott shouted back. He was holding two ropes with muscles that hurt from the previous day.
“My left.” Mike answered.
Scott pulled hard to his right to make the outhouse swing on the rope in that direction.
“Right!” Mike answered.
“You just said left!” Scott yelled with frustration. He quickly shifted his weight to move the outhouse the other way.
“No!” Mike retorted. “I meant it was right! Like right on. Now you’re too far the other way.”
Scott moved the other way again. “Make up your mind Mike! I can’t hold this all day.”
“Right is left and left is right,” Mike explained with no patience, “and up is pull and down is release. Got it?”
“Whatever!” Scott exclaimed, his arms giving out. “I can’t hold it!”
The outhouse came down with a thud on the log base and water splashed out from underneath. It had been suspended only a few inches above as they tried to get it square on. It landed askew but was stable. A few hefty pushes with their shoulders grinding against the frame got it squared to position. As square as anything could be at camp anyway, it wasn’t an exact science.
“Done!” declared Mike in triumph with his eyes beaming and a smile that could only be called angelic.
“Yea.” Said Scott, out of breath, “Done.”
They did a high-five and grinned at each other while admiring their work. Several chipmunks nattered at them from the trees, anxious to have their playground back. In the sky a flock of geese, honking to cheer each other on, flew over in search of a summer home.
They left the ropes and gear hanging, too tired of the project to bother with cleaning up. There would be time enough for that later. Next weekend perhaps. The lake was waiting. Mike went to get the canoe and paddles while Scott leaned on the railing of the porch admiring the system of ropes and pulleys. It had taken a lot of work and a whole weekend but they had done it. Together. Best friends. Sometimes, he thought, Mike’s plans really do work out. He was proud of him.
The outhouse, after the flood water receded, eventually settled two and one half feet off the ground, leaned ten degrees to the right and sloped back. Using it was an exercise in balance but the stairs got made, the seat got propped up with old catalogs to compensate for the lean, and a quad speaker stereo system was soon wired in . . . another of Mike’s achievements. It required a bit of explaining over the years but the outhouse never moved again.
Written by Bruce Thomas. July 2004.
This story is part of a series of short stories called Cabinack which is based on the two characters and their adventures at a cottage they named CABINACK. All stories are family oriented and written in the style of the infamous but long forgotten Canadian writer, Gregory Clark, who wrote in the 1930's.
