It’s a beautiful September morning and the gray goose is running well, the repaired muffler ensuring my presence is less offensive. I’m on my way to view (yet another) cabin property in southwest Quebec, a mere hour from the interprovincial bridges in Ottawa.

Having grown accustomed to my fruitless searches all summer, Dave wishes me a bright “safe travels hon!” and shoves a travel mug into my hand. I know he is feeling safe in the belief that this is simply another wild goose chase.

What he doesn’t realize is, this time, I have a blank cheque in my wallet.

I have a sudden glimpse of why my family often feels sorry for my husband. It could also explain the frequent gifts of craft beer often bestowed upon him.

This property feels different. A late night kijiji search revealed this newly posted gem. I thought it might be a scam or the price a misprint. Too good to be true kept flashing in my mind’s eye but I switched off this neon cynic and quickly dialed the number provided.

Miraculously, the owner answered even though it was close to 11pm. After speaking with him for a few minutes, he felt like a kindred spirit. He spoke my language.

Patiently, he outlined the nitty gritty of the property, including:

• yes that was the real price (and negotiable!)
• no, the land wasn’t leased, it was owned (4.3 acres!)
• was I aware that access to the private lake was within walking distance? (did he say lake?!)
• yes lady, you are the first person to contact me and yes I’ll meet you up there early tomorrow morning (my head is about to explode).

So here I am, coffee and steering wheel in hand, off to view the perfect cabin property.

I blame the pandemic. That sneaky virus and its variant offspring have two-stepped their way across the globe, causing unthinkable destruction in their wake. It often feels like a bad dream and I think the only thing we have become inoculated against is the memory of what life used to be like. The insidious toll of loneliness and fear on otherwise strong, confident people is tough to witness. The fear of our healthcare system collapsing has resulted in further lockdowns and restrictions, and constant news streams causing even the most optimistic to shudder and pull the covers back over their head. Or pour another glass of wine.

It has also caused many of us city dwellers to panic buy cottage properties. News articles decried “cottage country going ballistic with some properties going 70% above asking price!”. Apparently cottages were becoming the new toilet paper. Torontonians were quickly moving east and I needed to act fast.

Or so the Survivalist in me kept screaming through its camo-inspired makeup.

To be fair, owning a cabin has been a lifelong dream. It took the pandemic and ensuing travel restrictions to force me into action. I knew at my price point, very few properties would be available or habitable. I was also counting on the fact that our urbanite cousins to the west had not yet ventured this far east, so I might still have a chance to purchase a recreational property without falling victim to a bidding war.

I turn my blinker on – not sure why as I am now in the middle of nowhere – and turn into the driveway. My heart starts beating erratically (a covid symptom?) and I have an urgent need to pee. It’s almost within eyesight…I can see the roof…dear god this is it – my dream property..I swear I can hear angelic murmurs from the Universe accompanied by heavenly trumpets:

“Thou hath arriveth! Behold! Thy heart’s desire made manifest!”

I am so caught up in these visions that I almost plow the gray goose right into a pile of gravel nestled at the top of the laneway. There is an orange pylon perched clumsily to one side.

I screech to a halt, sliding on damp leaves and further disturb the gravel pile. This causes the pylon to lazily roll onto the roof of my car. Plunk.

I look left and see the cabin. Woah! Photos did it way too much justice. A tiny whimper escapes and I gaze right where I am accosted by a massive junk pile 15 feet wide and 8 feet high. An ancient camper trailer sits in the background. The door swings lazily on broken hinges suggesting god knows what fresh hell within. I swear it winks at me.

The junk pile seems to shudder and shimmer and I suspect there are a few local residents burrowed deep within its bowels. I can just make out remnants of past construction projects, appliances, and a burned out structure that looks suspiciously like a vintage lazy boy rocker.

I think the pile may also hold fragments of my broken dreams.

I have a feeling all of this splendor is included in the price. I also have a sneaking suspicion the sounds in my head weren’t congratulatory words from the Universe.

They were laughter. Accompanied by kazoos.

Karma Cabin Lesson #1: Your dreams may not arrive in the package you imagined they would. Get over yourself.