I spent childhood summers at a remote cabin in Northern British Columbia. My grandparents had the sole property on Eulatazella Lake, known colloquially as “Graveyard Lake” for its small Indigenous burial site beside a stand of birch trees at one end. The nearest town, Vanderhoof, has had a population of around 4,000 people since the early 90s.

On the annual drive to the lake with my mother and brother, we’d make our final stop in Vanderhoof and then bump along poorly maintained logging roads—with no signs—for what felt like an eternity before I’d finally catch a glimpse of the lake through the pines. Seeing the lake shining between the trees was a revelation every time. It sent a frisson of excitement down my spine. I wondered how my mother could remember which roads to take, but we always made it in one shot—the shining lake would always appear.

At the cabin, which my grandfather, Bill, built with his hands, weeks would go by without a single thought of the television, the news, or the Nintendo NES that was collecting dust on our living room floor. I knew what it meant to completely disconnect.

We usually didn’t have electricity during the day. It was in the evenings when me and my cousins would watch my grandpa yank the choke on the gas generator and get the engine chugging, followed by the yellow glow inside the cabin as the lights turned on. The tap water was pumped from the lake. You could sometimes find tiny minnows coming out of the spout when washing your hands. We brushed our teeth with water hauled in from town.

Our only contact with the outside world was through the radio. Once a week, the radio host at the local station in Vanderhoof would read out messages he had fielded from phone calls for people living out in the bush. If we didn’t listen at the right time, we’d miss it. Everyone would gather inside the cabin, around the radio, waiting for any news. Sometimes, the announcer would say: “To Bill and Claire at Graveyard Lake; to Bill and Claire at Graveyard Lake—Mike and Sue said they’ll be out on Saturday afternoon.” The kids would sometimes whoop with excitement. And that was it. And when Mike and Sue showed up on the weekend, we’d tell them that we heard their message on the radio.

The days were spent boating, canoeing, fishing, catching frogs or snakes, picking berries, gardening, maintaining the campfire, or wandering in the woods. My grandma Claire would turn our berries into canned jam and fry up the Rainbow Trout we caught with butter. I loved the taste, but was terrified of eating the tiny fish bones, so I seldom had more than a few bites. Claire didn’t like the snakes and frogs that the kids would catch—the only time I remember my grandma being cross with me was when she told me to keep them out of her cabin. I repeatedly brought frogs and toads inside anyways. I loved frogs so much that I couldn’t fathom her being serious when she said she didn’t.

The only times I recall feeling bored at the lake was when it rained. Even so, there was always a sense of calm and peace. I can still hear the sound of the lake gently lapping the shore, which I’d sometimes wake up to if I slept on the back porch overnight. It wasn’t difficult to leave the city behind—though I did sometimes miss my friends—because I learned the intrinsic value of feeling connected to nature. I never felt as though I was missing out on the world when I left it behind for Graveyard Lake.

We learned tough lessons in the bush, too. One year my aunt’s dog was killed by bears. Another year, a bear was showing signs of aggression towards the kids and encroaching on the yard to get nearer to us every day. My grandma decided she would have to kill it. My older brother was excited for the show. Indeed, it was a show: my grandma loaded up the rifle and killed the beautiful black bear in a single shot with all the grandkids gawking in horror. My brother, then around 8, was nearly inconsolable. It was our first real experience seeing death.

My sons are now 5 and 7. They have never been to Graveyard Lake. Years after my grandpa died, and a few years before my grandma followed, she sold the property. My grandparents hadn’t been physically capable of spending summers there any longer, and as all the grandchildren grew up and moved on with their lives—hundreds of miles away—it went unused for several years. The new owners tore our cabin down—it was in bad shape after squatters began to use it seasonally—and replaced it with two smaller ones. It’s painful to think about.

I want my sons to know the peace and connection I learned out at Graveyard Lake. We now live minutes away from Vancouver, though, and even when I take them on vacation to Harrison Lake in the summer, they want to watch YouTube videos before bedtime in our hotel room. It’s obvious that they feel like they’re missing out on something when they’ve been away from the internet for too long. Hell, me too—I can’t go a day without social media. I need to re-learn how to disconnect. And we are.

This spring, I took my boys out frog hunting. We came back with a bucket of tadpoles, and we built a frog pond in our backyard. We planted ferns and cedars and begonias and mint and snap dragons around the pond. In the mornings, we find ourselves rushing into the backyard to see which tadpoles have sprouted legs. We see which ones need to be moved from the bucket into the terrarium tank, where they won’t drown. And which frogs have lost their tails and need to be released from the terrarium into the yard. In the evenings, we stand in the yard looking for tiny frogs in the garden. I get the familiar frisson—like when I’d see Graveyard Lake through the pines—when we spot a tiny frog hopping underneath a fern. The boys hop, like frogs themselves, in excitement.

The first time my son Llewyn held a tiny froglet, it jumped from his hand to his arm. He screamed. “It scares me when they jump!” Now he laughs and doesn’t flinch.

One morning, he ran upstairs, shouting to wake me. I could hear something was wrong—his voice was choked with tears. One of the froglets died. I recalled my brother’s reaction to the black bear’s death when he was around the same age. I tried to console my son, but also to be matter of fact. The three of us made a frog graveyard and named the frog Oscar (I have no idea where the name Oscar came from). They still talk about Oscar being dead. And out here, in our city backyard, they’ve managed to learn about death like me and my brother and cousins did, out in the woods.

And now, in the mornings, when we lose track of time in the backyard, I hope my sons will learn about disconnecting from the world—and connecting with nature—too.