MAY 24, 2023 – (Cont.) Carl and Grandpa eventually grew too old to play any role in “dock-in” day—and thus, too old for the Old Crow that would follow the arduous annual ritual. The dock itself grew old too, of course, and had to be replaced. Dad was now lord of the manor—and harbor master, as it were. In his typical fashion, he designed and built with precision and quality workmanship, whole new wooden dock frames and decking. The new dock mimicked the original in appearance, but Dad used only treated lumber and separated the heavier-than-sin dock sections into lighter subsections. What didn’t change was slamming a sledge hammer down a thousand times on the steel-pipe supports.
The summer I turned 14, Dad and I shared the work 50-50. The next summer, the job split was 75-25 weighted my direction. Starting the summer after that and continuing for decades, I was on my own with Dad serving as tool-fetcher and spectator, though on occasion I managed to conscript Cory and Byron in supporting roles.
When Beth and I built the Red Cabin on a lot adjoining the far end of Björnholm, a second dock set-up became necessary. I adopted Dad’s design with some key adjustments—adding more space between deck planks, for example, so I could more easily slide my fingers through when carrying three- and four-foot long sections, and dispensing altogether with carriage bolts to fasten the frames to the pipe brackets (instead, I laid 4 x 4 beams across 2 x 4s permanently bolted to the brackets and simply plunked the dock frames down on the cross-beams).
The worst of it was still the John Henry (Carl Hanson) part: drivin’ steel. Eventually, I acquired auger bits and attached one to the bottom of each pipe. Instead of slamming the sledge a thousand times, all I had to do was auger each pipe into the lake bed: easy-peasy . . . unless you hit a submerged boulder after twisting an auger-tipped pipe a foot-and-a-half down, yet not far enough.
But the world was passing me up. A full decade ago or more, everyone on the lake, it seemed, outsourced the annual “dock-in” ritual. In fact, it was no longer a ritual. It was a non-event; simply a matter of “getting on a schedule” and writing a check. Of course, the dock systems grew more advanced, as well. Wood was out; aluminum was in. In fact, this year when I called prospective installers, none I spoke to would touch a wooden dock.
Many pros in our vicinity install hundreds of docks and boat lifts each year. These folks who’ve replaced all the cousins and brothers-in-law formerly conscripted into installation (and fall removal) service, own barge lifts (floating forklifts) powered by behemoth engines, and hire several-man crews to make short shrift of even the most challenging jobs.
In the case of Björnholm, my sister and brother-in-law, who assumed “management” responsibilities after Dad died, entered the modern age and bought a brand new, state-of-the-art aluminum dock. When I bought Beth a large, nautical Christmas present three years ago, we acquired the gleaming, solar-powered NASA-like boat lift that is now parked where the antique cradle used to threaten the life and limb of anyone who didn’t fully appreciate its destructive capacity. All of the foregoing is magically installed and removed by professionals.
But back at the Red Cabin, I’m a hold-out, doggedly maintaining a solo version of an old, lake cabin ritual. Why? Stay tuned. (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
