Posted tagged ‘cabin life’

Roundrock overnight

April 8, 2019

Flike and I made an overnight trip to Roundrock last weekend. The weather forecast showed a window between rainstorms that included Friday evening through Saturday afternoon, so we talked about it and agreed to hurry out there to get in a campfire and some hiking and some chores. The weather was about perfect, as forecasted. It’s not as though I can’t go to my cabin in the rain, but the roads are soft then and more easily damaged (yes, I need a thousand dollars worth of gravel spread over some parts and the drainage ditch dug out), and there are three wet-weather streams I must cross to get to my woods. I have seen two of them in deep torrents that I didn’t want to take my truck through,* and that was in the days when I had the bigger truck that could go anywhere. So we look for dry-ish windows.

I keep a calendar on the wall of the cabin and mark the dates of my visits, and it turned out an entire month had passed since I was last out. Part of that can be blamed on unfavorable weather, and some on grandfatherly duties. Still, I’d like to visit at least twice a month so the cabin doesn’t feel neglected. Plus, it’s always good for my mental health.

Speaking of mental health, I once again had the unfocused anxiety about going to the cabin that I mentioned last time. I don’t know what that’s about, and it wasn’t as strong this time, but still! Flike didn’t seem to share this and only wanted me to throw a stick for him to chase. And if I didn’t, he foraged in the woods and came back with what he thought was a suitable throwing stick. (I’ve cut a dozen or so throwing sticks for him, and they’re in the cabin, but he tends to lose them, and then they weather and rot. So if I don’t immediately fetch one for him to fetch, he finds his own.)

We arrived early enuf on Friday to have several hours of good daylight to use before campfire time, so I donned the day pack of tools and such I usually carry, put on my blaze orange cap (to convince any trespassing hunters that I’m not a deer or a bear or a Bigfoot), and grabbed the long-handled loppers that I always take with me on hikes (to liberate cedars from their earthly toil). Then we headed west from the cabin.

The lake was once again (or maybe still?) nearly full (and I still haven’t figured out how to convert the video I took to a format that WordPress will accept without me upgrading to the professional version of the blogging software), so I wanted to go to the uppermost part of the lake to see if it had water in it. (I speak of it as though the lake is some grand body of water, but it’s really only about 2.5 acres, and by Ozark standards, that’s a pond, not a lake, but indulge me, okay?) I knew what I would see when I got there: gravel. That part of the lakebed has long since been filled with gravel washed down from the hillsides in the lake’s watershed. (As soon as I get another spare thousand dollars I’m going to hire a backhoe guy to dig all of that out, but for now, meh.)

From there we continued west, up the Central Valley that feeds the lake. Back on my old blog, Roundrock Journal, I wrote of an interesting phenomenon about the stream that runs through this valley. As I headed west, I was crunching through the rocks of the dry stream bed, just as I have many times. But then I came upon pools of water farther upstream, and soon flowing water even farther upstream. Yet just downstream, the bed was dry. What happens is that the water goes underground at some point betwixt the upper stream and the lake. This is not unheard of, and it’s called stream piracy. It’s only when there is a deluge that the volume of water coming down from the hills can exceed the piracy capacity and continue on to the lake. Obviously, with a full lake, this had happened a lot recently. (And I wonder where the pirated water goes. Into the water table? Into a cavern under my woods? Some neighbor’s bubbling spring?)

We followed the stream to the west to the point where it crosses my property line and then we turned north. We were close to the entrance to our property, and I’ve found that since we built the cabin, we tend to visit the “farther” reaches of the 80+ acres less frequently than we used to. So I wanted to knock around there for a while just to see what there was to see. Because nothing much has come out in leaf yet (except for the red buckeye plants beside the cabin!), I was able to pass through these acres without much concern about ticks and chiggers, but give it another month and such a hike will be more perilous.

I visited some familiar places and tried but failed to find some others. And then Flike seemed to think that he was done with the woods and took himself to our road (where the going is easier, but why?). I could see his black and white shape through the trees, but he refused to come to me when I called him. I considered going to him, but I wanted to visit our pond, which was not far ahead. The road he was on would pass close to the pond, so I figured we would connect. And if not, he knew the way back to the cabin (though I was not comfortable with this idea). As it happened, he joined me at the pond, which was very full. I know there are some fish in this small pond, so seeing it recharged warmed my black and shriveled heart. But the light was just beginning to fade then, and I didn’t want to try building a fire in the dark, so I followed Flike’s plan and hiked down the road the rest of the way back to the cabin.

My packing for this trip was more spontaneous than comprehensive and it turned out that I had not brought sufficient water (we had enuf to drink but nothing more for washing dishes), nor had I brought anything to supplement the turkey sausages I bought to serve as our shared dinner. I slowly discovered this as the evening progressed.

I did create a one-match fire, as you see above, but I kept it a small affair since I didn’t want to be up all night tending it as it burned its way to ashes. And I don’t like putting out fires only to leave large-ish unburnt wood in the fire ring. So a small fire that I could nurture with modest feeding for a few hours was my plan. And that pretty much was what we did. I burnt the turkey sausage sufficiently enuf to shove down our gullets, and I washed it down with a few adult beverages, and I waited, as I always do this time of year, to hear a whippoorwill. Alas, I was disappointed this evening. Though I heard a barred owl a number of times, and the frogs at the very full lake were making merry as well, I guess the whippoorwill hadn’t returned to my woods yet this season.

Bedtime coincided with a cloudless black sky full of stars. Since it was a new moon, they were especially bright, and as I happened to arise several times in the night, I took a quick look at the stars and listened to the frogs that were going about their “business” nonstop through the night. I slept until I woke, which was four hours later than my normal time! (I’m pretty sure I don’t get enuf sleep.) Then it was time for breakfast.

Two things coincided then to make me especially stupid, I guess. One was that I had not packed any iced tea to drink in the morning. (See paragraph above about insufficient packing.) The second was that my phone’s battery was at one percent. I have no electricity (or plumbing) at the cabin, so the only way to recharge my phone was to plug it into the truck. And since I didn’t have any iced tea, I thought the best solution was to drive to the nearest town with a McDonald’s (their tea is acceptable), recharging my phone on the way. And that’s what Flike and I did, which was really pretty dumb since the nearest McDonald’s was something like 25 miles away! I didn’t want to go through the morning without a useable phone (in case of an accident, though I get no signal at the cabin), but I had a propane stove as well as some water and plenty of loose tea leaves; I could have provided for myself.

But I didn’t. About halfway to the McDonald’s (in the next county!) I realized how foolish I was being, but then I was already halfway there, so I just kept on. The tea I got was glorious, and Flike had no objection to the Egg McMuffin we shared as we drove back to the cabin. So with that out of my system, it was time to consider what chore to devote my morning to.

I had the chainsaw with me, and there are a few small trees around the cabin I’ve wanted to take down for a while, but I’m always leery about using the chainsaw deep in the woods when I am alone (Flike doesn’t count in cases like this). Instead, I decided to sling some gravel.

There is a pile of gravel near the cabin (supplemented twice) that is as old as the cabin, and I’ve been slowing spreading it around the area, both to keep the area passable and to maintain a firebreak. This was a less hazardous chore, so I decided that was what I was going to do. And I did.

I think I moved five wheelbarrow loads of gravel to places around the cabin. When I am done (!) I intend to scatter colored glass and marbles on the gravel. I had seen this done at a Christmas Tree Farm in Seattle several years ago and really liked the look. (They used red and green shards of glass there. And since only a fool would walk across gravel barefoot, there is no concern about getting sliced up. Also, the interaction with the gravel will removed the sharp edges from the glass shards.) When anyone asks me what I want for a birthday or Christmas gift, I tell them I want a bag of marbles. (I’ve even used this in one of my stories.)

I’ve only just started scattering the marbles and dragon’s tears because I haven’t built up the gravel bed around the cabin sufficiently yet, but here is what it looks like in one small area:

Between slinging gravel and throwing a stick for Flike, I managed to use up a few hours of the morning. I thought it was time to begin packing up for the return home. But while insufficiently preparing for this visit meant I would travel light, packing up to go home proved incongruously more involved.

I don’t like to leave a mess when I go, so I generally will sweep out some of the cabin and/or sweep the braided rug on the floor. Plus I always sweep the porch (and the return of the phoebe to her mud nest on the cabin wall meant more mud on the porch), plus I tidy up around the fire ring (someone had left empty beer cans there overnight!). But I also decided this trip that the sheets on the bed I sleep in ought to be changed, so that involved more time and effort. Then there is the putting away of whatever tools or fixtures I used (the chair I sit in beside the fire has often been found blown down the road on return visits, so I nest it with the other chairs then turn them on their side so they are less of a target for the vandal winds).

Anyway, all of this took time and I think it was after twelve o’clock when Flike and I were on the road, pointed toward home. We stopped at the McDonald’s again for more tea (unsweetened, of course) and ate up the miles under gathering clouds until we reached my driveway.

__________

*So we left the truck and walked through the torrents and hiked in the half mile or so to our property. Then we walked through them again on the way out and later threw away our leather boots that were literally growing things. See below:

sonder, out yonder

January 17, 2018

I once found a stubbed-out cigarette on one of the blocks of the retaining wall behind my cabin.

My first reaction was alarm. The back of the cabin is where dried out fallen leaves collect against the wooden wall. Cigarettes require a flame and themselves burn. But it seemed that the smoker was fastidious about his habit (I assume it was a “he” though I have no reason to think that) and snuffed it safely, though packing out his trash was apparently beyond the range of his perceived responsibilities.

But after my initial alarm, I began to imagine my interloper and his visit. Had he arrived by car or had he walked the considerable distance from anywhere to reach my end-of-the-road little cabin? Did he come down my road or hike cross country? Did he walk around the cabin and appreciate the setting? Or did he sit on the retaining wall as he enjoyed his cigarette? If so, why at the back of the cabin and not on the porch where he could look down on the glinting lake? Though perhaps he started there and merely sauntered. Did he try the door to see if it was open? Peer in the windows? Did he sit in one of the chairs? On the porch or around the fire ring? Did he heft the round rocks all around? Did he come with intent, to see the cabin in its place? Had he heard of it? Or was he just wandering the woods that day and come upon it? How long did he stay? And what did he think while he was there? Did he imagine for the time that the place was his own? Imagine throwing a line in the water? Throwing a steak on the grill? Telling stories around a fire? Or did he scoff at its humble setting? What was his name? Was he tired when he arrived and rested when he left? Was he alone? Did he meet someone there? Has he ever been back? Does this happen often?

I sometimes find the spoor of interlopers in my woods: beer cans, candy wrappers, footprints, emptied shotgun shells. Once, a horse shoe.

I have no illusions about the concept of private property, especially in isolated places infrequently visited. I also think it’s presumptuous in a way to think of “owning” a piece of land, at least on the time scale of land. I sometimes think of myself as more of a tenant of the 80 acres than an owner. A caretaker, maybe. A steward. Transitory. I can point to my influences, the changes I’ve made, both successful and not, and speak of the emotional connection I have to the place. But in a century, my connection won’t really be known to the next tenant in the woods. It seems unlikely that anyone will ponder who I was in my time and tenancy.

Maybe that’s why I write stories. To live beyond myself.