The Cabin – Page 2 – Judy Sunde Hanawalt

In the summer of 1998, we found some land for sale in southern Wyoming. It had been owned by a railroad company, and had been used for logging out ties for the railroad to use in laying new track. The little bump on the highway near there, with a quirky convenience store and a fireworks stand, was called Tie Siding.

The land had been purchased and sub-divided into 35-acre lots, and was selling cheaply, by our Colorado standards. The man at the sales trailer told us we should look at one piece of land in particular, with two little creeks meeting in its big meadow. We drove as close as we could and started hiking in, clambering over a dense mesh of fallen lodgepole pines. We had five kids with us, scampering around, excited about this wild place, and I was pregnant with our sixth.

It was a pretty little piece of land, once you got past the ugly blow-down on the front slope. Rocky cliffs, aspen stands, lush pine and spruce growing out of the abundant sage, wildflowers dancing in the wind, a little gurgling stream feeding a beaver pond. Near the pond, there was a meadow with a huge, ancient aspen tree in the middle of it. It was the biggest aspen I’ve ever seen. When we saw the meadow, we knew we loved that place. We raced back to the the sales trailer, afraid someone else might get there first and buy our land.

For the first year, we camped just off the road. We built a fire ring, put up a picnic table and and parked our pop-up trailer there permanently. After the baby joined us, the pop-up was too cramped. We decided to put a Tuff Shed garage up the hill from our camping spot and finish the inside to be a cabin.

We were up there most warm weekends from our near-by home in Fort Collins, working on making the empty shell into a comfortable space. We had a huge deck built to wrap around two sides of the cabin, overlooking a forested ridge and an aspen grove. One year, we brought in electricity and were able to put a refrigerator and oven in the kitchen. Years later, we put in a well, and years after that, we put in a septic system and retired the outhouse. A favorite improvement is a wood-fired hot tub–the perfect place to star gaze with a glass of wine.

Inside, the walls are knotty pine paneling, installed by Steve. I made the pine-cone curtains out of flannel sheets. The beds and furniture are a mix of cabin-y pine pieces and worn hand-me-downs. The floors were painted plywood for 17 years before we put in a wood floor, and the windows still leak every time it rains. It feels like home and has become an emotional center of our family life. We now talk about retiring there for part of the year someday soon.

When the four girls and I got our first tattoos together, we decided quickly and unanimously what it should be: the coordinates of the cabin. When Steve’s dad died and we discussed where to bury his ashes, the answer came easily–on the promontory near the cabin. Our dog Oliver loved spending time at the cabin, running freely and pursuing every smell and critter his heart desired, so when he died, it was the obvious choice to bury his ashes at the cabin too. Great Grandma Johnson’s ashes are there too now; she loved the idea of the cabin so much, even though she was never able to come during her life.

We go there for at least two weeks in the summer, and dream of being able to stay longer. We’ve added a spring trip to open up for the season, and a fall trip to close it up–really just excuses to go there for two more weekends. It’s the first place we think about going when we are burdened or stressed and long for relief. Through moves to California and then within California, it has remained constant.

That place holds memories of growing up, working together and gathering for family events and reunions. It has taken on almost mythical elements–it’s home in a bigger sense, it’s the place we believe we will be our best selves, ourselves at peace. It’s the closest thing to heaven we can imagine.

It is a wonderful place, but it’s not heaven. It’s simply a piece of mountain land in Wyoming, near Laramie, a small town with a pretty good fireworks show on the 4th of July. Its meaning has grown into something bigger because of the significance we put there. It has been a safe place to hide away our desires for a true, unchanging home at the center of our family life.

With every new investment in its physical improvement or in its emotional content–and with every loved one we bury there–we are weighting it, anchoring it in our hearts. By stashing memories and dreams of family and connection into every nook and cranny of those 35 acres, we transform it into The Cabin, Our Favorite Place on Earth.

The other day, one of the kids was talking about a friend’s tradition of visiting family in Germany every summer. We were talking about how amazing that is, and the question was dropped like a little bomb: What cool thing do we do? Just go to Wyoming?

It’s a fair question. We have limited vacation days, limited resources. Going to the cabin means we aren’t going other places. We aren’t exploring fabulous camping sites, seeing all the national parks, discovering the amazing natural and cultural wonders of everywhere else, and international travel isn’t even on the horizon. We have done some exploring on the way to and from the cabin, and circumstances have taken us on trips to different places. Most of our energy, resources and time, though, goes to the cabin.

So I wonder: Was that the best thing to do? What could we have done if we weren’t always there? It’s so simple, so predictable. With so much world and so little time to see it all, why would we spend so much time looking at the same thing? Is it good to delve deeply into a such a small area, or should we have covered a broader swath of the world?

I don’t know. You make a choice and you can’t know what another choice would have been. Each family makes their their own center, their own sacred spaces. It didn’t start with a detailed, long-term plan in our family. One thing led to another, and we ended up at that place.

It was love, I think–just as irrational and potentially painful as a relationship with a person can be; the loves you follow in life are the chances you take, the investments you make because it’s the next step in the direction your heart pulls you. All those small decisions–the paths you follow, the dreams you chase–chain together to create the flow of time and life and resources that forges your family legacy. We make the decision that seems best at each crossroad, not fully knowing the ultimate destination.

This is not a warning to control every twist and turn, every small step, to ensure that you achieve a successful, perfect family experience or live the best possible life. It’s a celebration of those twists and turns.

It’s an admission that we didn’t do so many things–but look at what we did do, and look at how much we love it. It’s a realization that as our kids form their own families, their loves may take them different places. Some of our children may continue to make the cabin the center of their family life, and others will be busy with other adventures.

We live our lives–one day, month, summer and year at a time–and the paths we follow grow into traditions that accumulate and solidify to become our shared values, a mosaic unique to each family. The destination, after all, isn’t a specific place or set of experiences, but a solid core of connection, the relationships between parents and children, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandchildren, and an ever-wideneing circle of family.

A day at our cabin in the Boulder Ridge, near Laramie, Wyoming. Back when summertime meant all the kids were home with us.

In the early morning, it’s cool and quiet on the deck. The kids sleep late. Steve gets up first and hikes up to the promontory overlooking the beaver pond, hoping to see some wildlife. The elk, moose and deer are active in the cover of darkness, but before the sun is up for long, the noise of our family scares them back into hiding. Soon he’s back, whistling a tune and getting the day started.

I sleep in, at least until the coffee is ready, then go out to my favorite chair, barefoot and still in my nightgown. Sometimes I sit facing the hummingbird feeder, the big pine tree, and the distant ridge, but usually I sit facing the other way, looking toward the aspen grove. This is the view I dream of, the one I call to mind when I need a serene image to dwell on–when I’m having dental work done or when I’m trying to distract an upset child from a nightmare. I don’t need a book or anything to do; I am content to sit and soak up the air and the sky and the trees. The air smells like warm pine and loamy dirt as the sun heats up the earth. The sky is clear, bright blue before the afternoon thunder clouds billow up. The aspen leaves shimmer and jump at the slightest breath of breeze, whispering ancient forest words.

It’s not long before the kids start to trickle out of the cabin, across the deck to the outhouse. Some join us on the deck with a cup of coffee, but the stillness of the morning keeps us quiet, enjoying the slow, easy start to the day. The youngest boy is impatient for breakfast and for his brother to get up, so they can start of the business of finding secret forts and having air-soft wars. Oliver, our golden retriever, is restless too, ready for the woods, the animal smells, his all-day running and exploring. There’s a vole or a mouse teasing him in the wood pile, but as soon as anyone stands up and heads for the gate, he leaves his post there and scampers down the driveway, ears perked up, stopping only to look back to make sure we are coming before bounding ahead again.

Once breakfast is eaten and cleaned up, I go back out on the deck again, this time under the umbrella’s shade. The hummingbirds are busy by mid-morning, quarreling and chasing each other in dive-bombing acrobatics that have us squealing and ducking. There’s room for four tiny birds on the feeder, but each one wants it to himself. These green-brown birds, with the iridescent red spot on their throats, migrate by the deck in the summer, stopping for some sugar water when we are here. The boys take turns standing completely still by the feeder, hands resting on the red top, until the little birds forget that they are there and land on their fingers, lighting first with wings still humming, then coming to a rest on the human perch. Sometimes a larger, metallic-gold colored hummingbird arrives and chases all the others away, a beautiful bossy bird we wish would leave our friends alone.

Late morning, it’s time for another cup of coffee, chatting, maybe thinking about a trip into town later, or starting the new book I picked out for these perfectly, gloriously open days at the cabin. There’s no clock on the deck, and I don’t wear my watch or compulsively check my phone like I do at home. The sun, forcing me to move to find fresh shade, and hunger pangs–usually the kids’–are the only time keepers. Lunch soon comes and goes, and then I may take a hike down to the meadow where the giant Aspen tree stands and the spring gurgles up through the grass. Before long, I end up back on the deck, maybe with a beer this time.

The morning’s stillness has given way to the flurry of a big family, with conversations starting and trailing off as people come and go, playing, arguing, laughing, teasing–busy about the work of the cabin, whether that’s simply relaxing or working on a project. The afternoons often bring clouds, immense thunderheads pushing higher and higher, the tops brilliant white against the blue sky and the undersides dark, threatening rain. If it doesn’t rain hard or hail, I’ll stay out under the big umbrella and watch the storm race through. After it’s passed, the sun is back, the woods smell clean and mossy, and the deck dries quickly.

As the afternoon wanes, it’s time to think about dinner, and after that, a campfire is on the kids’ minds. They are ready for roasting marshmallows and making s’mores. By the time we’ve made and eaten our fill, sang the old favorites, and told the scary stories about Big Foot and the deadly blue mist, the last of the sunset has left the sky. The moon is rising, and the stars appear in the darkening sky. The fire has died down to embers, finally perfect for marshmallows, but we’ve had enough. The fire is still perfect, though, for staring into while talking in low voices in the moonlight. One by one, people leave, picking their way back over the rocks and logs to the cabin.

We go in partly because it’s chilly, and partly because the mosquitoes are on the hunt once the smokiness of the campfire dies down. For me, though, it’s mostly because it’s too dark. This part of the Rocky Mountains is home to abundant wildlife–not just moose, elk and deer, but predators like black bear, coyote and mountain lion. During the day, this doesn’t bother me. While I haven’t actually seen them, there’s Boulder Ridge lore about these hunters, and it’s not unusual to see bear or cat scat on a hike, or to hear coyotes yipping and barking at night. When I can’t see into the layers of black-outlined trees, I’m afraid. The night is thick. I can hear the leaves rustling, their words menacing now in the wind. I imagine something right there, seeing me, haunches rocking, ready to pounce.

My stomach feels tight and jumpy, my muscles ache from clenching. I wish my insides would settle down so I could stay out on the deck, especially on moonless nights, the darkest nights, when the stars–so many, many more than I can see at home in a city night sky–pop out, and the Milky Way is a bright swoosh across the black, star-sparkling sky. I want to sit and soak it up like I do the day-time scene, but I end up scurrying into the safety of the cabin walls and light after only a few minutes, teeth chattering. Our domain, so welcoming during the day, reverts to it’s wild inhabitants at nightfall.

If it’s chilly, we light the cozy wood stove, and bring our reading and games and conversations inside until we are ready to go to bed. We are safe in our snug little home, and another day–my favorite kind of day, in a place I love–is done.

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
1	2	3	4	5	6	7
8	9	10	11	12	13	14
15	16	17	18	19	20	21
22	23	24	25	26	27	28
29	30	31

Category: The Cabin (Page 2 of 2)

Twists and Turns

On the Deck 2008

Judy Hanawalt

Get Blog Posts via email

Recently Posted

Reader Thoughts & Comments

Books I’m Reading Now

Calendar of Posts

What are you looking for?

Archives

Categories

Site Management