For many Canadians, Thanksgiving weekend isn't just a holiday; it is a pilgrimage. It’s the annual autumn migration away from the city and up into "cottage country" to catch the last breath of the season before winter sets in.

When I think of Canadian culture and Thanksgiving, my mind immediately travels back to the Verona area of Ontario, specifically to my Uncle Ed’s waterfront cottage on Fourteen Island Lake. Those weekends were the highlight of my childhood, filled with good old organic fun, family, and traditions that I still hold dear today.

The Friday Night Journey

The adventure always began on Friday. As soon as my dad got home from work, we would pack up the car and hit the 401. Growing up in places like Montreal, Hemmingford, Quebec, and later Lancaster, Ontario, the drive was a solid three to four hours west.

Because of the distance, we usually arrived in the dark. Pulling off onto Old Desert Lake Road, there was a gate we had to pass through. One of us kids would have to jump out, open it up, and sprint back to the safety of the car, hearts pounding with the thrilling, irrational fear that a black bear was lurking just in the trees. As we crept slowly down the dirt road, my dad would flick on the high beams so we could watch for wildlife. We’d occasionally spot a deer, but mostly, it was the glowing eyes of wandering raccoons greeting us in the dark.

Stepping Back in Time

Arriving at the cottage meant hunting for the hidden key in the pitch black. But the moment that door swung open, we were welcomed by the unforgettable, comforting smell of the woodstove.

The cottage was a classic, single-storey rectangular build with three bedrooms. The walls were clad in that quintessential 70s wood panelling, and by the door stood two cedar tree trunk posts with the branches trimmed back—nature’s perfect coat rack. On the wall hung a collection of large moths, butterflies, and bugs my uncle had carefully gathered from the screen door and his car radiator, sharing space with wooden duck decoys and owl-shaped decor.

While we unpacked, the excitement of waiting for Uncle Ed to arrive would get the best of us. We'd sit on the couch in front of the black-and-white TV—complete with rabbit ears and tuned to the single channel we could get: CBC. The only sound was the rhythmic tick-tock of the clock until, finally, we heard the crunch of tires on the gravel road. Headlights would sweep through the thick junipers and pines, and Uncle Ed would walk through the door, his arms full of groceries: bags of Cheezies, chips, and fresh cheese curds from the Harrowsmith Cheese Factory. They were the absolute best—perfectly rubbery and wonderfully squeaky when you bit into them. With my mom having brought the turkey and all the fixings, the weekend felt officially complete.

Early Mornings and Sunfish

I usually slept on the top bunk of a bed my uncle had built out of 2x4s. My room happened to be the one housing the cottage fridge, meaning my sleep was frequently interrupted by parents sneaking in to grab a late-night beverage. But I didn't mind. Facing east, my room caught the very first rays of the morning sun.

As soon as daylight broke, I’d grab my shoes and jacket and head down to the small bay. I'd gather the oars, our lifejackets, fishing rods, and tackle down to my uncle's tin boat, and my brother and I would row out into the crisp morning air. Our main goal? Catch enough sunfish to feed the raccoons that night. However, if we managed to hook a decent-sized bass or perch, we would proudly skin them up and eat them for a fresh-caught meal.

The lake in the fall was breathtaking. The trees were ablaze with deep reds, vibrant oranges, purples, and yellows. Blue jays would dart through the canopy, and the wind rustling through the leaves provided a constant, peaceful soundtrack. Echoing across the water, the haunting, beautiful call of the loons would rise and fall—that signature sound every Ontario cottager can relate to. It was deeply calming and remains one of my absolute favourite memories of the lake.

The Great Outdoors

Days were spent making forts in the forest, digging for worms for bait, and slathering on Muskol to keep the pesky mosquitoes at bay. Every day, without fail, we took an extended family walk down the gravel road, going as far as we could before turning back. At the time, as a kid, I found it a bit of a chore. Today, I’d give anything to take one of those walks again. I also fondly remember hiking out to a large beechnut tree with a stack of blankets, shaking the branches, and collecting the nuts that rained down. We'd often sit quietly and watch the local chipmunks racing around, frantically stuffing as many acorns into their cheeks as physically possible to store for the approaching winter.

At night, around 10:00 PM, we would take our morning catch of sunfish and lay them out on a natural rock hill perfectly visible from the screen door. We'd sit in the dark and watch the raccoons arrive for their feast—sometimes a mother with her kits, sometimes just a solitary adult.

The Sunday Feast and Monday Goodbyes

Sunday was the main event. The smell of roasting turkey filled the panelled rooms. My aunt and my other uncle would arrive, completing the gathering of my mom’s side of the family. The weekend was always extra special, too, because Thanksgiving doubled as a celebration for my mom’s birthday. It was a time of absolute zero stress.

When it was time to eat, I always made sure to sit right between my two uncles. They were very different people, but I loved them equally because they both took the time to pay attention to us. They were the ones who took us fishing, hiked with us, and taught us outdoor skills.

But hanging over Sunday dinner was the bittersweet reality of Monday. Monday meant packing up and heading home. It was never a good day; we knew our time was limited, and because it was Thanksgiving, we were closing up the cottage for the long winter. We wouldn't see Fourteen Island Lake again until the spring thaw.

As this Thanksgiving weekend rolls around, my mind wanders back to that dirt road, the mesh popcorn basket, and the smell of the woodstove. To everyone across Canada heading up to cottage country right now—navigating dark gravel roads, unpacking groceries, putting the turkey in the oven, and perhaps slipping on their favourite pair of cozy moccasins—I hope you are enjoying the same beautiful, simple traditions that made my childhood so special. Happy Thanksgiving.