Author: Judy Hanawalt (Page 9 of 23)

Before the hot tub, the evening gathering spot was the fire ring. We loved to circle up the benches around the crackling and popping logs, tell spooky stories, sing old campfire songs, roast marshmallows and star gaze. I liked to stay out after everyone else fled the smoke and the chill to watch the moon come up and think the kinds of deep thoughts that come when gazing into the flickering embers of a quieting fire.

A few dry summers with fire bans got us out of the evening fire routine. At the same time, a growing number of cabin regulars confessed to not really liking s’mores very much. Roasting marshmallows and making s’mores was a big part of the campfire scene; without some reward, sitting in the smoke with a cold back was less appealing. Even in wet years, the Wyoming wind whips sparks up into the trees and smoke into our faces, taking some of the fun out of it.

Having a wood-fired hot tub has been on the list of things we wanted to have at the cabin from the beginning, and we were finally able to get it a few years ago. It came in pieces in giant boxes, assembly required.

My husband printed the instructions off the company website in order to have the most up-to-date information. The instructions were clear that the kit came with one extra stave in case one was damaged, so he carefully set one aside.

After fitting all the staves in the base and tightening the hoops, we tried filling it up. Water poured out of cracks faster than we could put it in. Our first thought was that the wood needed to swell, so we waited hopefully. It did swell and the leaking slowed down, but there were still  gaps with water pouring out of them. Searching for a solution, we thought of silicone caulking, lots of it. Before we went very far with that plan, though, we decided to call the company and see if they had a better solution.

The look on my husband’s face as he spoke with the hot tub manufacturer was not good. Something had gone terribly wrong.

The internet instructions were not the most current, they told him; the paper ones stuffed in the box with the wood and the hardware were the right ones. The new tubs were shipped with just the right amount of staves, no extras. We had left one out.

It was decision time. Should we proceed with the caulking plan, or take the entire tub apart and remake it? The sun was beating down on us; we had spent half the day making the tub.

It wasn’t a cheap item, and we hoped to have it last many, many years, so we decided to do the right thing, the painful thing: take it apart and start over. My husband and his brother had been doing most of the work on the initial build. Sensing the great discouragement that threatened to end our hot-tubbing dreams, everyone rallied around the project and helped. We got the staves nice and tight this time, snugging each one firmly and carefully so we could fit the additional one into the circle of staves.

We over snugged. We got around to the beginning and there was too much of a gap between the first and the last staves, even when we cranked down on the hoops. We were at another decision point. Sweaty and tired, we were tempted to go with the silicone caulk after all.

Again, the family pulled together. We knew how to dismantle the tub and reassemble it quickly now, so once again, we took the whole thing apart and started over.

This time, we snugged but we didn’t pound; we were very precise, following the new instructions to the letter. The gap they recommended was the perfect one, even though it hadn’t seemed like it the first two times. We made it around the circle, the family standing around the tub to hold the staves in place as others were added, and then we slipped the hoops back on and tightened them up.

This time, the wood swelled just enough to stop the leaks, and we filled it up.

The next day, we built a fire in the stove and watched and stirred all day in anticipation of using it that evening. When it was hot, all of us crammed into the tub in joyous celebration. It was just as amazing as we had hoped–the smell of cedar, the starry sky, chilly shoulders and warm bodies, and even a little rubber ducky.

Many nights, instead of sitting around the campfire, we gather in the hot tub. It’s the same feeling of camaraderie without the smoke and potential forest-fire danger.

Around the fire, the focus is on the flames, the warmth, the smell of the wood burning, the pulsating depths of the embers. The fire keeps the night away; it’s a defense against the cold, the dark and the critters. The fire is an event we attend together.

Soaking in the hot tub is a different experience. We are together in the tub; we sit in the night and watch and listen to what’s around us. It’s not an event, but a place to be and search for shooting stars, identify satellites and constellations, listen to coyotes yipping in the woods, and watch the moon travel the sky and the Milky Way show up.

It’s not one or the other; they are both much-loved parts of cabin life.

I’m out of breath from chasing Tie up the stairs to the front door twice. When I got my coat and purse and said, “Come on, let’s go!” the first time, he trotted quickly down the steps, greeted a passing walker, ran over to say hi to our neighbor and was very happy to be going with me.

I opened the back of my car and called him to get in, but he wouldn’t come. He went slinking up to the front porch. He must think we’re going somewhere that’s not his idea of fun.

I went up the stairs, held him by the collar and walked him back down to the car. He seemed to be cooperating, so when we came around to the rear of the car, I let go of his collar and told him to jump in. Instead of hopping up, he ran around the other side of the car and headed back up the steps.

I followed him again, calling him sternly by his full name, “Tie Siding!” He kept going, looking back guiltily. I found him lying on the stoop, looking up at me with his head down.

“Ok, go in the house,” I said, knowing that giving in wasn’t good dog discipline, and thankful that he’s a retriever and not a husky. How did he know I was taking him for a bath? I think I might have mentioned it on a phone call I just finished.

He really does understand what we say.

He’s always good for his bath. He walks into the elevated tub at the pet food store, stands still while I lather him up, and usually waits to shake his whole body until I’m done rinsing him.

He tries to huddle as far into the corner of the tub as he can, forcing me to lean way over the tub wall, getting my arms and torso wet in the process–clear body language that he’d rather be somewhere else. He will never accept a treat from the employees at the store; he doesn’t want me to think he can be bribed that easily.

I see the uncomfortable-but-patient look in his sweet brown eyes at bath time, and know that he doesn’t love it, but I didn’t think the feeling went deep enough to cause him to turn down a trip in the car. Now, his bath has to wait until another day. Next time I won’t say anything out loud about where we’re going, and I won’t trust him to go to the car off leash.

Having this big puppy around can be annoying, but he’s so loving it’s hard to be mad at him.

Lately, as soon as I start turning out the lights and getting ready for bed, he goes and lays down on the rug beside my bed. Other than some whimpering during doggie dreams and some readjusting, he sleeps peacefully in our room.  I like his presence there. It feels safe.

Before this pattern started, he was a bit of a wanderer in the night, waking us up by walking around the house. We tried settling him down in our room, but he wanted to be in and out, so we closed our door and left him in the living room to muffle his nighttime walkabouts.

In August and September, my strong, healthy husband ended up in the hospital twice for a total of 11 days. His illness was a roadblock thrown up in our lives, stopping everything. Meetings and trips were cancelled, plans changed. Deadlines were missed or delayed.

We lived those days in uncertainty, waiting for answers, hoping for healing. I came home emotionally weary at night after spending the day with him in the hospital, unsure of what to expect the next day.  That’s when Tie started coming in and sleeping by me.

He really does understand.

I don’t know if he overheard me talking to the kids, or if he just read my body language, but as surely as he knew that bath time was coming today, he must have known then that I needed comforting, and he stayed close.

When we first built the cabin, we brought water up in five gallon jugs filled with tap water from the hose at home. We tried to estimate how much water we needed for the number of days we would be there and the number of people who would be joining us. It had to be enough for cooking, washing dishes and showering. We brought up drinking water in individual bottles or gallon jugs from the grocery store. If we ran out or were staying longer, we had to find a place with a hose to fill them up.

Thinking it would be more convenient to have a large plastic water tank, we got one from the farm supply store that we could take to Laramie in the trailer and fill up at a bulk water dispenser, the kind that huge trucks pull up under to fill their tanks. My husband tried it only once.

He had a length of wide plastic hose to direct the water into the tank from the dispenser, which flows from above and is supposed to go into the opening on top of the tank. After pulling up below the pipe and putting payment into the machine, he braced himself on top of the trailer. The water came in a torrent, and the water pressure made it almost impossible to direct the freezing water into the tank without losing half of it and getting completely soaked.

When we discovered that the water got a little funky after sitting in the sun for a few days, we gave up on that idea.

We didn’t use much water, really. We had an outhouse and camping toilets, so there was no flushing. Washing dishes after meals used some. Showers were done military style: get wet, turn off the water, lather up and rinse.

We had a camping shower called a Bivouac Buddy, a little round enclosure with a molded floor and an open water reservoir at the top.  We tied it to a branch of a large pine tree beside the shed, out of view of the cabin. Water went in the top, a blend of boiling water and cold water that was hard to get just right, because what feels right to your hand usually feels too hot to the rest of you. The flow was regulated with a little stopper with a wire pull that felt like a bug in your hair when it brushed against the top of your head.

After swatting the side to dislodge any spiders, we put our towel and clothes on the white plastic chair outside the shower–the one we stood on the add water–and hopped in, careful not to make the bottom slide out and dump us on the ground. It was part of the thrill to be naked outside in the breeze, hoping no one walked by.

My husband spent much of the morning heating water and keeping the reservoir full for everyone who wanted to take a shower. We tried to get in and out before the wind picked up, because the blue shower curtain material stuck to  wet skin, making it hard to lather and rinse, and potentially providing too much information to passers-by.

Some people refused to use it, preferring to wash up in a bucket, but for the brave, it was great.

A few years ago, we decided to have a well drilled. We now have a ready supply of cold, fresh, delicious water. It comes from a crack in the rock 500 feet underground near the cabin. We don’t haul water anymore.

There’s no drought in Wyoming, and the water we use goes directly back into the ground it came from. It’s a vacation from the water stress we experience at home in dry California.

With our new abundance of water, we decided a to build a better shower. It’s still outside, but it is a 4 by 8 foot solid structure, with wood decking for the floor, corrugated steel for the sides and open air for the ceiling. There’s a propane water heater keeping the hot water flowing, so my husband’s mornings are freed up. A little bench and wall hooks make changing more pleasant and less revealing than Bivouac Buddy days.

The first summer we used it, our daughter stocked it with luxurious shampoo, conditioner and lotion and we dubbed it the Spa Shower. Everyone loves it. It is wonderful to feel the sun while you shower, and look up to see the blue sky, billowing clouds and shimmering aspen leaves overhead.

One hot summer day, we repurposed the old water tank by cutting off the top with a jig saw and filling it with well water to make what we call the “cowboy swimming pool”–a much better way to use it.

“Do you know a cure for me?”

“Why yes,” he said, “I know a cure for everything. Salt water.”

“Salt water?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said, “in one way or the other. Sweat, or tears, or the salt sea.”

― Karen Blixen, Seven Gothic Tales

When I think of the sea as a cure, I think of soaking, like an epsom-salt bath on a large scale. Salt-water soaking is helpful for inflammation, skin infections, cuts and pain relief. It has a calming, soothing effect on the body and the mind. The benefit of salt water to the outside of the body mirrors the good that comes when salt water flows from the inside in sweat and tears.

I feel a special connection to the ocean. Growing up in Southern California, my family drove from our inland home to the beach on weekend and summer days. We stayed into the evening, cooking hotdogs around a fire ring on the beach. All day, my sisters, cousins and I were either in the waves playing or in the sand resting before getting back in the water.

We played in and with the waves–leaping up and over them, falling backwards into them, trying to catch them and ride them into the shore, or ducking under them to avoid getting picked up and tossed around, especially careful to stay clear of what we called the “recycle zone,” the shallow water where the waves crashed and swirled and filled our hair and swimsuits with sand.

Going past where the waves break, we liked to swim in the deeper water and calm swells. I have happy memories of floating on my back and loving the roller coaster feeling of the swells. The water at San Clemente, our favorite beach, was dark and opaque; I couldn’t really see my legs or what exactly was brushing past them. I’m sure it was usually just kelp, but I was always a little afraid of what I could not see under the water.

The movie Jaws came out when I was 12. I was too young to see the R-rated film, but I knew the gist, I’d seen the poster–a big, toothy beast could be coming up from the deep to eat me. I still swam, trusting, I suppose, that the lifeguards would call everybody in if they saw menacing fins out there. If I was floating, it felt a little safer because I could see my feet.

I don’t play in the waves much these days, but I still love floating. It connects me back to those carefree days of childhood. It’s more than that, though–soaking and floating in sea water is soothing whether you have those memories or not.

There’s something about just letting go, trusting the buoyancy of the human body and sea water to hold me at just the right level, ears in the water, muffling the outside noise with the swishing, tumbling noise of the surf, and face far enough above the surface to breathe easily. The salty water complements human bodies of salty blood, sweat and tears and creates a comfortable cradle where it’s safe to lose touch with the sand and just be, floating and rocking with the waves. It feels primordial; it’s like a return to the womb. It’s a mind and body reset.

To float, I have to let go of the fear of sinking, of the need to touch the bottom, and of knowing exactly what is coming next. Losing touch with what’s outside, I can be quiet with what’s inside.

Some people don’t like to float. They sink, or they can’t relax, feeling the need to hold themselves up, crunching their belly and trying to lift their legs and torso, fighting to keep their head up. I get it–that is not relaxing. That doesn’t cure anything.

It’s ok to use pool noodles under your legs and arms. It’s ok to lay in shallow water (stay out of the recycle zone). It’s ok to float on a blow-up raft. Keep trying. You might love it as much as I do.

The three-part saltwater cure makes sense to me. The sweat, the tears and the sea water all in some way wash away what is harmful and connect to what is healing: Sweating and working, crying and listening, floating and letting go.