Originally published in Lake of the Woods Area News, Volume 55, Number 3, Summer 2025
Our cabin journey on the Winnipeg River began in 2003. My partner Michael and I had two small children and a dream. Mike is from the area, Redditt, a small town nestled in the lakes and streams of Northwestern Ontario. He was pining to have a boat on the water once again.
Waterfront property was still affordable for us in 2002, so Michael took up the charge to “cabinize” the family. We almost signed a deal for property near Manigotagan on Lake Winnipeg, but soon realized venturing out on that lake would require much bravery and a big, big boat.
Keep looking, we told ourselves. We missed out on the last lot in an affordable development on Black Sturgeon by about a week.
Keep looking. When Mike’s mother, Shirley, got wind of what we were up to, she and her partner Rollie Hammerstedt, a natural salesman and brilliant engineer, called. “Got something to show you on the river,” Rollie said.
We drove up to a spot off the Redditt Road. It was late summer, water was low, the waterfront a marsh, the forest thick with large poplar and balsam pine.
Michael fell in love once again! Me, not so much as I had visions of “jump in” water or maybe even a beach—yep, a beach. The guy selling the property suggested we take his boat for a ride out on the river. He knew what he was doing. That was the closer, the forest, water, rocky shoreline—endless. We made an offer and after some haggling, the little bay was now “our little bay”, a quiet nature reserve tucked away in the wilderness.
Michael’s family—mom, Rollie, aunts, uncles, and cousins—were elated to have him back in Ontario, and close by, with two great kids and a willing wife. It wasn’t long before his Auntie Isabel called him to say she’d spotted a building up for auction from Creighton Youth Services.
We bid; we won!
Most new lot buyers start with a camper or build a garage to live in while the cabin is built, but no, not us. We were proud of our great buy but soon realized moving this behemoth 24 ft. by 32 ft. school building ten kilometres down a major highway into uncharted forested was way, way over our heads. Oh, and by the way, the building had to be moved before the end of the year—it was October. Immediate panic!
The first contractor bowed out a week later, the second contractor discovered our purchase had no wheel carriage as promised; he backed out too. The third contractor from Dryden said, “No problem, my special hydraulic trailer can handle that with ease!” Of the many features Mike liked about this building was that it was actually two 12 ft. by 32 ft. structures placed together at the Longbow Lake lot that were only connected with electrical and cladding. The contractor just cut the connections, picked up the first half and drove off. Breathe, Mike, breathe.
Mike’s beloved uncle Babe and backhoe had mucked the lot for the building after Mike and his brother cleared it. The contractor was elated the building was so easy to move but upon arrival at the lot realized Mike hadn’t really solved… an access road. Seriously, there was no driveway! Mike figured this large tractor-truck, trailer, and building could use the same wagon trail we’d been using to access the lot. Luckily it was November, and the ground was frozen so the unflappable driver realized that getting this monkey off the trailer would require some backcountry 4×4 trailering. The first half came in through the three lots to our right, one of which was occupied. Hi neighbour, nice to meet you, okay if I drive this tractor trailer through your front yard? The second half came in from the left, down the wagon trail—it was crazy! Thank-you contractor, that took guts.
We used the makeshift building installation a few times that winter. No road, no electricity, no running water, the only heat from a hastily installed wood stove. We soon discovered the neighbourhood was seasonal. The one neighbour close by had trouble with their building that year and spent the winter in town. Unsettling quiet, dark and isolating. But we were all in, often sleeping together in front of the wood stove in our snowsuits.
The following spring, Rollie surprised us with a homebuilt boat that sported a 45hp Chrysler outboard, a motor that lived up to its untrustworthy reputation leaving us to paddle home on more occasions than we care to remember. We tied it to a tree and realized a dock was needed (we had no boat trailer). Along with that, the first priority would be an outhouse, second a kitchen, third (which should have been first, but by now you’re getting the picture; we did everything painfully backwards) improve the driveway. This would allow our minivan access on something other than a wagon trail so perilous a 4×4 would struggle.
Eventually, we made progress. We did 98 per cent of the work ourselves. The building got a foundation, a certified grey water pit, a below the building high-capacity compost toilet, a wrap-around breezeway, a 12 ft. by 24 ft. addition, new windows, and after all that, holy moly, ELECTRICITY, a 52-foot driveway, and finally a pump-house for water from the lake.
With the exception of the Douglas fir and pine boards, virtually every part of our cabin was built from something else: reclaimed wood and windows (screen room, interior walls and a woodshed), a discarded futon frame (kitchen countertop), an abandoned swing set (a rickshaw), a huge hotel awning (greenhouse) and the list goes on. Mikey’s brain worked overtime recognizing opportunities to get it all done while stretching our funds as far as possible. The expense of a 152-metre (500 foot) driveway, power panel, and pole took all the credit we had.
Most of this was done with power from an old generator. Do your magic and produce electricity for Mike before he loses it, please. Much of it was done without help.
After some time, we affectionately named our retreat “The call of nature.” Paradise isn’t always perfect, but eventually we began to really enjoy our very private bit of wilderness with its frequent wildlife—otters, beavers, spawning fish, feasting eagles, ducks, geese, bear, deer muskrats, bats, a moose and my favourite, grey herons. Our quiet bay is very shallow producing a vast field of wild rice when the water levels remain low.
Everything we did was with an eye to keep our footprint small, leaving a buffer between us, the river, and the forest. Now, over 20 years later, we are still drawing our water from the river and use wood stove heat to offset our electricity use. We still have a compost toilet. We have an organic garden, we compost, we fish within our limits, and do everything we can to uphold
the natural beauty and sustainability of our riverfront paradise and community.
It’s the least we can do for all it’s given us.
The building of the cottage in all its phases is an integral part of our cabin story. Not having electricity or running water for many years made us appreciate what we have now and drew our family even closer. We had few distractions, and the outdoor adventures were endless: paddles along the winding river, jumping off our floating dock out in deeper water, fishing for hours, blueberry picking, pulling our growing children, Everette and Ren, and all their friends on a tube around the river with our homemade boat in the summer or behind our ancient snowmobile in winter.
In those early days, I would watch Ren and Ev move closer together in front of the campfire or wood stove as the chill of evening arrived, the only light the glow of our kerosene lamps, or Mike’s clever chandeliers of battery powered LED Christmas lights. Ev and Ren’s incredibly close connection remains today.
With electricity, came the end of those “make-do’s”, real lights, and the opportunity to live and work at the lake.
We love it so much, Mike and I decided to move here permanently in 2017.
And while Ev and Ren live in different cities with busy lives, the “call of nature”, always brings them home.
