The Cabin in the Woods
Summer dawns and the days are filled with warm sunshine. School's in recess, the kids delight while my weary head welcomes the additional sleep at dawn. Yearly we conceive a new and unfamiliar adventure to undertake. For this year new challenges beckon. For the kids, a week by themselves with the in-laws. For us, a week alone in a rustic Maine cabin.
Along with our two, seven-year-old dogs, we cram our supplies into a four-door hatchback. A large roof packing bag holds our essentials from clothes, the kid's toys, camp tools, water jugs, dog food and water bowls, and for entertainment, our Scrabble board game. Preparation is certainly much easier than past excursions. No tents, no sleeping bags, no outdoor cooking utensils and no concern of soaked belongings. For this trip will take us back in time to an age before electricity, indoor plumbing and bathrooms. My enthusiasm for this temporary lifestyle adjustment is genuine. Love it, I will.
I imagine a simple cabin, somewhat along the lines of Thoreau's, equipped with the basics for living. Thoughts of the woods and precious solitude consume me. I'll be content.
We make the three-hour drive up the highway just to exit the Garden State and enter The Empire State. Our departure scheduled for mid-evening to avoid the inevitable congestion through Manhattan. Once beyond the city we settle into an adventure-free night of travel. In New Haven, Connecticut I am thrilled to see that historic and beautiful church that rests uncomfortably close to the highway. I envision worshipers walking to Sunday services, down tree-lined streets that have since been bulldozed below to make way for this unsightly concrete ribbon that we now traverse upon. We pass Hartford and into Massachusetts where I conjure up memories of past adventures in Boston. She listens intently to the tales. One day we'll get there together. Any day in Boston requires tasting the fine Italian cuisine in the north end. Time must be made for Fenway and the Old North Church too.
I eagerly give up the wheel and pass it off to her during the middle of the night. I soon drift off into a restless sleep. The rising, muted sun briefly wakes me, I notice that we are now in Maine. The urban sprawl has suddenly given way to a rural setting dotted with lush, green trees and rolling hills. The indigenous pine, spruce and oak trees, stretching across the landscape as far as my eyes can see, seem to reach out to me as I pass by. Is this their hospitable welcome? I remain in a foggy state of ecstasy, which no drug could ever duplicate, for nature is my high.
We reach Portland, Maine, heartily consume breakfast, then observe our two children head south into New Hampshire for a week with their grandparents. We continue northward into the wilderness of Maine.
The winding, cresting and sloping roadway yields to a sole, lonely eatery and gas station on our left. Civilization in its simplest form amidst the totality of nature. A turn-off awaits us a mile yonder, littered with dust, dirt and rocks, the road is surrounded by towering trees. We follow along for five minutes before the second and final turn beckons. The roadway is made of grass, prone and withered from myriad vehicle tires passing over. The clearance on each side narrows while tree branches swat us, announcing their displeasure at our arrival.
The road abruptly ends and we happen upon a small clearing that is no more than a tiny grass-strewn patch. Puzzled, perplexed are we. Is this where the journey ends? We venture out for a glance, searching for any sign of a trail and before long, one appears. Thus, we hike into the unknown growth before us.
The entrance to the trail is uneven, teaming with boulders of all shapes and sizes. Sprained ankles and twisted knees seem inevitable. Low-hanging branches and black flies irritate and aggravate, but suddenly the trail reveals the woods beyond, the ground levels and the brush and bugs abate. What lie ahead is a clear path, gentle hills, a thick canopy of mature growth trees and deafening silence.
Our chocolate lab and terrier mix pups, normally very loquacious, seem awed by the new locale. With leash in hand they match our every step. We crest a small hill, cut to the left and notice an old, wooden and weather-beaten outhouse. We must be close. Through a brief thicket of trees we glance upon the back of a log cabin. We have arrived. A clear lake greets us just beyond the cabin, its perimeter adorned with thousands of trees. I see a few tiny islands farther out, we must visit them. The wooden canoe on the property will do the trick. Keeping with the cabin's rustic allure and old-world charm, a woodshed, stocked full of chopped logs, stands ready for another harsh New England winter.
We take the hand-cut wooden steps onto the front porch. I think of how life used to be 100, 200 years earlier. The door is padlocked, though I am sure leaving it open for all of nature to admire would suffice. I have been told that the loons frequent these parts at night. I eagerly await to hear their call. The inside of the cabin is modest, yet comfortable, with a queen-sized bed, dining table, four chairs, propane cooking stove, kitchen counter, cabinets, sink, plates, silverware and glasses. We've been promised two, five-gallon jugs of fresh water and they await us in the kitchen. The most intriguing is the guest book. We read the names and particularly the places where past inhabitants of this cabin have traveled from. Seems that this spot and this cabin are very popular. I believe we have made a good choice.
The cabin's rafters give it an airy feel so as not to seem too congested. Several candles will be our source of light come nightfall. Thoughts of a simpler life and time flood my mind again. The frivolities of our modern world become superfluous. I envision falling asleep to the stars shining overhead and waking at first light. As we settle in, the loons announce their presence over the lake, their voices echoing throughout the amphitheatre that nature has provided.
We rise with the sun the next morning and I walk down to the lake. I am in need of a good old-fashioned bath and the lake will be my tub. With environmentally-friendly soap in hand I carefully step into the chilled waters that immediately invigorate me. Two full dunks underwater are enough for this day. I emerge refreshed and alive. Nature has that affect on me.
At night we pass the time, with several candles burning brightly, by playing games of Scrabble. There was a time when outcomes in my favor were decisive and swift, she, though has sipped a magic elixir and thus robbed me of my board game intellectual superiority. I swallow my pride after another defeat and look forward, once again, to the next rematch, but for now the snoring from the dogs and the nearly-dark cabin make the eyes weary. Tomorrow is another day.
The thick canopy drowns out the brightness of the moon and conceals the myriad stars overhead. A few peek in between the branches. I welcome their presence. It's dark in the wilderness. No street lights, no televisions, no vehicles and no other houses out here. Nightfall is sudden. For a mind that wanders before its nightly restful sleep, the stillness and hushed air awakens the senses. Small noises, such as a chipmunk stepping on a twig or the gentle waters reaching the lake's edge, keep the light on in my mind. The deafening silence of the woods at night, for me, loudly reverberates and pulses my body. Ear plugs or a properly placed pillow may be in order.
The next day I decide to walk around the wooded site of the cabin. A circular fire pit sits off to the side. Further down rests the aforementioned wooden tandem canoe. I hear faint voices far off in the distance, then spot a lone paddler thrusting his canoe across the still lake. He's too far away to say hello. I am sure he doesn't see us. Or does he? Are there eyes in the woods, secretly watching us, witnessing everything we do? Nature's voyeur.
Dinner over the open flames arouses the taste buds and satiates our appetites. Tonight I will skip the bath in the chilly lake. Instead, we have devised a makeshift shower just off the front porch. It does its job and afterwards her and I both let our drenched bodies dry themselves by the smoldering fire. I begin to envision the eyes in the woods watching us from across the lake. We begin to move as one in nature's masquerade ball, to the songs of love and lust we become one, penetrating the space between us with long thrusts of energy. The fire crackles on behind us. Do the eyes in the woods see us? Are there inquisitive ears listening to our every move?
The wooden tandem canoe has seen better days, but its heavy construction guarantees many more years of capable service. We carefully lower it into the chilled lake. She boards and takes the back, while I attend to the front, in charge of steering. We push off into the calm waters. Trees abound all around, the summer sun is about ready to call it a day. A glimpse of the moon appears overhead. Water fowl skim the water's surface then head for the cover of the trees. We notice an island off in the distance, a brisk paddle to it will it be. As we near the island we encounter myriad stumps of old trees and branches jutting out of the water, gasping for breath from the suffocating depths below.
As the sun drops below the treeline evening time is quickly upon us. We enjoy a peaceful sunset upon the lake, paddles quietly maneuvering us towards the cabin. The stars begin to announce their presence one after the other, while the loons begin to sing their rhythmic chant. Darkness is nigh upon us and we use our intuition and memory to guide us safely back to shore. A glorious trip has successfully come to an end.
As the final day approaches I have now become one with our fair and remote surroundings. The walk through the trail has become second nature, our legs and feet seemingly guiding our mindful selves around the bends and over the hills. The evening's darkness is no longer an obstacle. I begin to treasure the night's eerie silence, my mind calm and at peace with the unknown. One last game of Scrabble by candle light before resting our heads upon the cool pillows on our bed. I will miss this cabin, for it is not often that we are privileged to step back in time and live a week's life as simply as our two-legged ancestors once did hundreds of years ago.
Time stands still here in the woods. I shall endeavor to return one day and I eagerly await my pilgrimage into another place and time.
Along with our two, seven-year-old dogs, we cram our supplies into a four-door hatchback. A large roof packing bag holds our essentials from clothes, the kid's toys, camp tools, water jugs, dog food and water bowls, and for entertainment, our Scrabble board game. Preparation is certainly much easier than past excursions. No tents, no sleeping bags, no outdoor cooking utensils and no concern of soaked belongings. For this trip will take us back in time to an age before electricity, indoor plumbing and bathrooms. My enthusiasm for this temporary lifestyle adjustment is genuine. Love it, I will.
I imagine a simple cabin, somewhat along the lines of Thoreau's, equipped with the basics for living. Thoughts of the woods and precious solitude consume me. I'll be content.
We make the three-hour drive up the highway just to exit the Garden State and enter The Empire State. Our departure scheduled for mid-evening to avoid the inevitable congestion through Manhattan. Once beyond the city we settle into an adventure-free night of travel. In New Haven, Connecticut I am thrilled to see that historic and beautiful church that rests uncomfortably close to the highway. I envision worshipers walking to Sunday services, down tree-lined streets that have since been bulldozed below to make way for this unsightly concrete ribbon that we now traverse upon. We pass Hartford and into Massachusetts where I conjure up memories of past adventures in Boston. She listens intently to the tales. One day we'll get there together. Any day in Boston requires tasting the fine Italian cuisine in the north end. Time must be made for Fenway and the Old North Church too.
I eagerly give up the wheel and pass it off to her during the middle of the night. I soon drift off into a restless sleep. The rising, muted sun briefly wakes me, I notice that we are now in Maine. The urban sprawl has suddenly given way to a rural setting dotted with lush, green trees and rolling hills. The indigenous pine, spruce and oak trees, stretching across the landscape as far as my eyes can see, seem to reach out to me as I pass by. Is this their hospitable welcome? I remain in a foggy state of ecstasy, which no drug could ever duplicate, for nature is my high.
We reach Portland, Maine, heartily consume breakfast, then observe our two children head south into New Hampshire for a week with their grandparents. We continue northward into the wilderness of Maine.
The winding, cresting and sloping roadway yields to a sole, lonely eatery and gas station on our left. Civilization in its simplest form amidst the totality of nature. A turn-off awaits us a mile yonder, littered with dust, dirt and rocks, the road is surrounded by towering trees. We follow along for five minutes before the second and final turn beckons. The roadway is made of grass, prone and withered from myriad vehicle tires passing over. The clearance on each side narrows while tree branches swat us, announcing their displeasure at our arrival.
The road abruptly ends and we happen upon a small clearing that is no more than a tiny grass-strewn patch. Puzzled, perplexed are we. Is this where the journey ends? We venture out for a glance, searching for any sign of a trail and before long, one appears. Thus, we hike into the unknown growth before us.
The entrance to the trail is uneven, teaming with boulders of all shapes and sizes. Sprained ankles and twisted knees seem inevitable. Low-hanging branches and black flies irritate and aggravate, but suddenly the trail reveals the woods beyond, the ground levels and the brush and bugs abate. What lie ahead is a clear path, gentle hills, a thick canopy of mature growth trees and deafening silence.
Our chocolate lab and terrier mix pups, normally very loquacious, seem awed by the new locale. With leash in hand they match our every step. We crest a small hill, cut to the left and notice an old, wooden and weather-beaten outhouse. We must be close. Through a brief thicket of trees we glance upon the back of a log cabin. We have arrived. A clear lake greets us just beyond the cabin, its perimeter adorned with thousands of trees. I see a few tiny islands farther out, we must visit them. The wooden canoe on the property will do the trick. Keeping with the cabin's rustic allure and old-world charm, a woodshed, stocked full of chopped logs, stands ready for another harsh New England winter.
We take the hand-cut wooden steps onto the front porch. I think of how life used to be 100, 200 years earlier. The door is padlocked, though I am sure leaving it open for all of nature to admire would suffice. I have been told that the loons frequent these parts at night. I eagerly await to hear their call. The inside of the cabin is modest, yet comfortable, with a queen-sized bed, dining table, four chairs, propane cooking stove, kitchen counter, cabinets, sink, plates, silverware and glasses. We've been promised two, five-gallon jugs of fresh water and they await us in the kitchen. The most intriguing is the guest book. We read the names and particularly the places where past inhabitants of this cabin have traveled from. Seems that this spot and this cabin are very popular. I believe we have made a good choice.
The cabin's rafters give it an airy feel so as not to seem too congested. Several candles will be our source of light come nightfall. Thoughts of a simpler life and time flood my mind again. The frivolities of our modern world become superfluous. I envision falling asleep to the stars shining overhead and waking at first light. As we settle in, the loons announce their presence over the lake, their voices echoing throughout the amphitheatre that nature has provided.
We rise with the sun the next morning and I walk down to the lake. I am in need of a good old-fashioned bath and the lake will be my tub. With environmentally-friendly soap in hand I carefully step into the chilled waters that immediately invigorate me. Two full dunks underwater are enough for this day. I emerge refreshed and alive. Nature has that affect on me.
At night we pass the time, with several candles burning brightly, by playing games of Scrabble. There was a time when outcomes in my favor were decisive and swift, she, though has sipped a magic elixir and thus robbed me of my board game intellectual superiority. I swallow my pride after another defeat and look forward, once again, to the next rematch, but for now the snoring from the dogs and the nearly-dark cabin make the eyes weary. Tomorrow is another day.
The thick canopy drowns out the brightness of the moon and conceals the myriad stars overhead. A few peek in between the branches. I welcome their presence. It's dark in the wilderness. No street lights, no televisions, no vehicles and no other houses out here. Nightfall is sudden. For a mind that wanders before its nightly restful sleep, the stillness and hushed air awakens the senses. Small noises, such as a chipmunk stepping on a twig or the gentle waters reaching the lake's edge, keep the light on in my mind. The deafening silence of the woods at night, for me, loudly reverberates and pulses my body. Ear plugs or a properly placed pillow may be in order.
The next day I decide to walk around the wooded site of the cabin. A circular fire pit sits off to the side. Further down rests the aforementioned wooden tandem canoe. I hear faint voices far off in the distance, then spot a lone paddler thrusting his canoe across the still lake. He's too far away to say hello. I am sure he doesn't see us. Or does he? Are there eyes in the woods, secretly watching us, witnessing everything we do? Nature's voyeur.
Dinner over the open flames arouses the taste buds and satiates our appetites. Tonight I will skip the bath in the chilly lake. Instead, we have devised a makeshift shower just off the front porch. It does its job and afterwards her and I both let our drenched bodies dry themselves by the smoldering fire. I begin to envision the eyes in the woods watching us from across the lake. We begin to move as one in nature's masquerade ball, to the songs of love and lust we become one, penetrating the space between us with long thrusts of energy. The fire crackles on behind us. Do the eyes in the woods see us? Are there inquisitive ears listening to our every move?
The wooden tandem canoe has seen better days, but its heavy construction guarantees many more years of capable service. We carefully lower it into the chilled lake. She boards and takes the back, while I attend to the front, in charge of steering. We push off into the calm waters. Trees abound all around, the summer sun is about ready to call it a day. A glimpse of the moon appears overhead. Water fowl skim the water's surface then head for the cover of the trees. We notice an island off in the distance, a brisk paddle to it will it be. As we near the island we encounter myriad stumps of old trees and branches jutting out of the water, gasping for breath from the suffocating depths below.
As the sun drops below the treeline evening time is quickly upon us. We enjoy a peaceful sunset upon the lake, paddles quietly maneuvering us towards the cabin. The stars begin to announce their presence one after the other, while the loons begin to sing their rhythmic chant. Darkness is nigh upon us and we use our intuition and memory to guide us safely back to shore. A glorious trip has successfully come to an end.
As the final day approaches I have now become one with our fair and remote surroundings. The walk through the trail has become second nature, our legs and feet seemingly guiding our mindful selves around the bends and over the hills. The evening's darkness is no longer an obstacle. I begin to treasure the night's eerie silence, my mind calm and at peace with the unknown. One last game of Scrabble by candle light before resting our heads upon the cool pillows on our bed. I will miss this cabin, for it is not often that we are privileged to step back in time and live a week's life as simply as our two-legged ancestors once did hundreds of years ago.
Time stands still here in the woods. I shall endeavor to return one day and I eagerly await my pilgrimage into another place and time.
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