It was always the same story come the end of May when I was growing up on Limekiln Lake.
The trees and wildflowers were budding, the blackflies were biting and folks were opening up cottages.
The owners referred to their cottages in many ways: summer house, lake house, but mostly as camp.
They spoke of heading up north for the first time of the season and tackling the chores of spring.
They arrived with a carload of goods and great memories of past camp experiences.
As I embarked on many lakeshore hikes I often found myself in the role of resident greeter.
I’d see each owner wearing gloves and with rake in hand trying desperately to ward off the bugs as they attempted to spruce up their places for many more summer visits.
Each little shack had its own set of needs. Some had five inches of dried White pine needles that had to be swept from the roof.
Others had jigsaw puzzle-like docks that needed to be pieced together.
The smell of mothballs oozed from open doorways.
Sheets that had covered the interior furniture over the winter were airing out on lawns near the thousands of surrounding ferns ready to uncurl.
I watched as folks dressed in their shabby work clothes wriggled under the buildings to repair leaks and turn on water pumps that had laid dormant for eight months.
They seemed to take pride in the camp opening ritual and all it entailed.
They joked about leaks and bat activity, missing parts to systems, or other family members who must have forgotten to shut down something, drain a pipe or worse yet, empty the refrigerator.
One day when I was out on the welcoming trail I ran across a new couple who were outside taking a look at their cottage.
As the 10-year-old Lake Ambassador, I asked, “Hi, are ya new folks to this cottage?” “We are, and we think we have a bear inside,” the woman said.
I told them I would take a look for them. I cupped my hands around my eyes to take a peek inside the front window.
“Nope, it’s just a raccoon… might be two. You got a broom?” I asked.
I chased that darn raccoon for almost a half hour before he decided to scurry out the front door.
I told the owners that this was one of the great things about cottage life. It was the first of many memorable stories that would be told for years to come.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com