When ruminating over what or whom I consider to be a “hero,” it wasn’t long before I was confronted by the relativity of the term, bogged down in semantic considerations of what kind of hero I identify with most. Apart from the supernatural and comic book hero archetypes, I’ve always been interested in the heroic acts of ordinary people. Yes, that’s cliché.

I don’t mean firemen rescuing cats from trees, or the 12-year-old boy who, allegedly, miraculously lifted a car off of a pinned victim’s fracturing torso. I am not talking about those one-off herculean fits of strength or courage, rather the sustained and often understated acts of heroism performed by strangers, family and friends, and how those acts have an immediate impact in shaping the lives around them. Okay, it’s even more cliché than you thought, and about to get more sentimental.

I am slated to turn 25 in a month. Apart from hammering a few nails here and there, I am no handyman. When my father was my age he decided to build a cabin.

Things were a tad different in the ’70s. He was a lot handier at my age than I, but by his own admission he had no idea what he was doing when it came to building a bird cage, much less a cabin from scratch. He was just a young, foolhardy man bent on realizing his dream of building a cabin of his own. He did just that, in the Lake of the Woods area in Northwestern Ontario.

He had little to no experience designing or constructing anything at the time, but a few boatloads of beer later, and with help from many friends and family, a waterfront cabin went up over the course of the summer of ’76.

Fast-forward 36 years and, while the cabin has undergone many incremental transformations and restorations, the façade, frame and foundation are much the same as they were when it was first erected. A pickerel, pike and rainbow trout, and an eight-point buck hang undisturbed on the knotted wood grain wall.

My father has maintained and cared for that cabin and its lot with calloused hands, with quiet and constant tenacity, while the rest of us have been left to roam and wander and relax.

Why is this heroism to me? I am but one of several family members and friends that have spent their summers growing up in the woods and waters of that place. I grew up mucking about with its fish, frogs and forests, and now they’re in my bones.

I am a certifiable wildlife-loving fiend and aspiring nature writer, and in no way is that a coincidence. The vagaries of post-adolescence could have swept me in many directions, but instead much of it has been devoted to chasing after contract positions working in highly remote and wooded areas with birds and other wildlife, developing an insatiable desire to explore and reflect — a byproduct of his building that cabin.

Despite not having the requisite knowhow, that cabin and my father’s 25-year-old zeal to build it has given me and others scores of opportunities to build and nourish a relationship with nature, and in my case interrogate its many inconspicuous features.

I am painfully aware of how privileged I’ve been to have these experiences, to occupy this position. This is one of my father’s many sustained acts of heroism. I have had a rare chance to connect with the natural world. I am grateful for having a father that encouraged and facilitated that connection from a very early age.