Judy Sunde Hanawalt

Things I'm Thinking About

Tag: cabin (Page 2 of 2)

Dog in a meadow

Reclaiming Our Place

August 7, 2015 / / 3 Comments

The cabin has always been easy to love. Our relationship has had a few bumps–inconveniences, really–but I’ve felt only love and devotion for the place. Last year’s busy summer kept us away; I was painfully disappointed not to spend our usual summer vacation there, and I couldn’t wait to be reunited. As we made the long trek across Highway 80, I was excited to get there, anxious to relax and enjoy being there as I always do.

Coming up the drive this time, though, it looked different to me. Hip-high weeds obscured the driveway. The cabin loomed at the top of the drive, looking less welcoming and more shabby than I remembered. The fire ring was choked in weeds and fallen trees. Aspen trees and thistles were pushing up through the deck.  We’d neglected her, leaving her two whole years alone against encroaching nature.

Once inside, I was overwhelmed. The mice had ravaged her, leaving their tell-tale excrement everywhere. The harsh winter had claimed the water heater, and mold coated the refrigerator, which had stopped working. I felt disgusted by the mess, and fearful of getting sick from the respiratory virus, hantavirus, that mice can leave behind in the dust with their filth.

For the first time, I wanted to just leave. Leave the cabin and her horrible mess. This time, she wasn’t easy to love. I didn’t know where to begin. I stood in the kitchen and cried, praying to know how to start to undo the damage of cold and mice and time.  We just had to start.

One person started vacuuming, another carefully spraying and wiping up the scattered pellets with bleach, hantavirus in the back of our minds. Others were reclaiming the deck, clearing weeds, beating down old paths, carving our space out of the wilderness again. We  rolled up mattress pads with pillows, blankets and poop into a ball and threw them away rather than trying to salvage them. Whole drawers went into trash bags. A mattress and everything that couldn’t be easily cleaned was pitched into a trailer to be hauled to the dump. We couldn’t sleep there that night; about 9, we gave up for the day and drove to a hotel in Laramie.

The initial mess was cleaned up, but the mice were still there. We captured or killed at least 14 the first week, and the number rose to 20 before they were all gone. The cabin kept letting them in, harboring those little terrorists, expecting me to clean up after them every morning, disgusting black pellets in the drawers and on the counters, exposing me to potential death. The little intruders were bold–scuttling around the living room, jumping into the dog’s food bowl, prancing through my cookware and across my counter. I wasn’t settled, I was tip-toeing around, afraid of what I’d find around the next corner, in the next drawer, nervous even in my bed that a mouse would leap up on me.

My love had cooled. 

It’s not her fault, I told myself. We shouldn’t have left her alone so long. We should have checked, set traps, been proactive to keep the mice from taking over. It’s not insurmountable, we can do better next winter. But even if it is our fault, even if we can fix it, something has changed. I’ve fallen out of step.

My love had kept me from dwelling on the problems before; now they were all I could see. I strain to see what I saw before, the reasons for my love. Some things are still good. The hot tub, the log cabin the boys are building, sitting on the deck with a beer, the way the dog runs and explores and is so happy, the friendly hummingbirds, hovering around my head when their sugar-water has run out. I remember my love, but it’s stretched and pulled and unrecognizable because of  the anger and fear that crowds out my peace of mind.

I have an idea: I need to take a walk to the meadow, that place where I first fell in love with this place. It wasn’t easy and convenient then, before electricity, the well, comfortable beds–but I could overlook the hardships because I was focusing on the beauty: the giant aspen, the bubbling brook, the wildflowers, the big, open sky. I need to get back to that vision of this place or I won’t be willing to put up with the work of keeping the cabin clean and safe and comfortable. I’ll give up and leave and go where it’s easier.

We have an investment here. I can’t just leave it behind. It’s not just me–the whole family counts this as solid ground, a place that will always be home, a place we can always come and find serenity. I don’t have to do this alone. It’s all of us. When I’m tired and discouraged, someone will come alongside and pick up the burden.

By the time we were packing up, ready to go home, I had made peace with the cabin. The mice were gone. Holes were patched. We had a plan, thanks to a pest-control expert named Gene from Laramie, to keep them out. We decided to come again in a few months to enjoy a Wyoming mountain fall weekend, to hear the bugling elk, to see the golden aspen trees, to soak in the hot tub under clear, cold skies and then to close the cabin for the season. We want to return in early spring to open it up for the summer. There won’t be mice again–or at least, the cabin will have a fighting chance against the wilderness.

It’s a tension we have to live with, the balance between maintaining and discovering, working and resting, pushing back the wild and loving the wildness and beauty of this place. 

The huge aspen in the meadow

Twists and Turns

April 23, 2015 / / 3 Comments

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.

On the Deck 2008

April 14, 2015 / / 1 Comment

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.

A Long Walk

January 17, 2015 / / 2 Comments

I took a long walk with the dog today. We are staying at a friend’s cabin in the Sierra foothills near a mountain lake, woodsy and quiet. There is a trail behind their house that follows an old rail line for three miles. My feet are still complaining, and I think there’s a blister on the bottom of one of them.

You can tell the trail used to be train tracks; it’s narrow and flat, with blasted out rock on one side and ancient posts holding rusty barbed wire on the other. I wonder if it was a line from Gold Rush days.  A stream meanders along the barbed-wire side, slow and shallow, iced over in places this January day.

Tie runs ahead of me the whole way, stopping to wait for me if he gets too far ahead, running back sometimes to see what is taking me so long, getting interested in a bush or deer sign for a moment, then galloping ahead of me again, ears flying. I’m glad to have him with me. It feels a little creepy in the woods alone when you’re not used to it. I almost expect to see some crusty old miner emerge from the woods, pick-ax over his shoulder, looking for the train to take him to the assay office in town. I’m a little nervous that a mountain lion may be watching me from the rocks above, but assure myself that my brave hound will scare any cats away.

After walking for a while, I forget to watch for unwanted visitors and start to notice the woods. The tiny cedar and pine trees, bright green beneath their giant elders. The smooth, dark red manzanita bushes with silvery coin leaves next to  the  low, spreading limbs of live oaks. Pine needles cover the trail and hang like tinsel from the leafless bushes growing under them. Towering Valley oaks mix their elegant, shapely leaves with the pine needles underfoot and look like upside-down puzzle pieces. The path opens up to shady slopes dotted with tall pines, sunshine streaking in where it can find an opening. Bright green grass pushes up through brown leaves, taking the opportunity a recent rain gave it, taking the chance that snow may yet come and freeze it out.

The trail winds on. It’s supposed to be three miles. It’s starting to feel too far. I still have to go back, too. I check my watch and keep walking. I think about Cheryl in Wild with new respect, walking on a narrow trail like this for months, a huge pack on her back.  I decide that if I haven’t reached some sort of end in 15 minutes, I’ll turn around. Just when I get to that time mark, the landscape changes–there’s a road, houses, and power lines–so I commit to going around one more bend. There it is. A gate across the path. The end. I reach it and turn around to trudge home.

Watching for markers that I remember–a big tree, a black rock by the side of the trail, a hole blocked off by metal poles and wire and covered with rocks (could the miner be in there?)–I walk back the way we came, slower, tired, thirsty. Not nervous, though–except when I notice new animal scat on the trail, not deer, could it be mountain lion? Not noticing the beauty I swooned over on the way, either. Tie’s tongue hangs and he plops down to wait for me when he gets ahead too far.

I start to think. My mind isn’t wandering, preparing to fight or flee, or exploring the landscape. It settles on an idea and turns it over as I walk and walk. Finally, the gate at the start of the trail comes in view. We’re back. It feels like an accomplishment. Not just the effort of the walk, but the taming of my fluttering thoughts. I feel ready to sit and write some of those persistent thoughts down.

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