The screensaver on my computer flashes a photo of the inside of our remote cabin during the winter. Glancing at it, I'm startled to realize I'm homesick. I long to be there in the middle of winter, and that leaves me questioning my sanity. It's zero degrees outside with snow predicted.
This is the second year my husband and I have not gone to the cabin during the coldest of months. As we age, we justify not going as completely rational. There seems to be no sound reason to leave the comfort and warmth of our Eagle River home to venture into the unknown scenarios of possible survival pitfalls in the cold wilderness. Last year, we were rather cocky and happy not to face those challenges.
But an eye sees what it wants, and it is often influenced by memories. The snapshot I see brings visions of fun. Photos of mild weather at the cabin depict us fishing, hunting, gardening, building or repairing. That's work. The one on the screensaver shows the tranquility of winter within a cabin cocoon.
My memories take it from there. I recall the plane landing on a frozen runway at 10:30 a.m. and how we dug our truck out from under five feet of snow, wondering all the while if it would start. I label that as fun. It only got a bit scary and hairy when we realized both the side doors were frozen, and I had to slip in through the truck bed window without my parka, because space was tight. To add insult to injury, we had the joy of chipping away the ice holding the tires to frozen tundra.
Finally, we were off to the cabin, stopping within a half a mile from our destination, where no snow had been cleared. About 1 p.m., we slapped on snowshoes that had been wintering away in the bed of the truck. I ended up with one of my hubby's and one of mine, with his being eight inches longer. It was inconvenient to switch, so off we went with ski poles in hand and pulling two sleds loaded with gear and food for a one-week stay. To the outside observer, we probably looked like amateurs who purchased imbalanced snowshoes on sale.
Once at the 16-by-24 foot cabin, we divided up to start shoveling snow. We also gave thanks for the two doors we put in that were recommended by fire-conscientious advisers. One door had been lifted from the permafrost and would not budge, but the other swung open as if a hungry mosquito from the summer was waiting inside.
Chores remained divided as my hubby cleared snow to get to the well house where the generator was. Meanwhile, I coaxed the wood stove into igniting inside the cabin after checking the roof for chimney clearance and smiled smugly at the kindling and logs I had stacked in a container during the prior visit.
About that time, I heard the purr of the generator. Hubby, still in mismatched snowshoes, appeared at the door with a five-gallon bucket of water from the well.
Grabbing the bucket, I crossed the cabin, only to spill a quart or so of water. It turned to ice instantly, and I found my bunny boots doing a dance I could never have performed on a dry floor. Amazingly, I stayed upright long enough to slide to the propane stove, where I came to a soft stop. The timing was perfect, as my hubby had turned the propane on outside, and it was my task to light the pilots on both the stove and the refrigerator.
The temperature inside the cabin was about zero, just as it was outside. The only difference was that there was more fun to be had outdoors. I always get the pleasure of packing down the snow of the 50-foot-long outhouse path. Hubby had more important missions to accomplish to make sure we were prepared to stay comfortable and safe. So back to the snowshoes I went, but by then we had exchanged the mismatched ones and looked like real pros walking on eight feet of snow. I know the depth because after I packed the path to the outhouse, I had to dig down to the door. Once there, I chiseled the door's bottom free of ice to open it. Carefully, I placed Styrofoam on the commode, knowing it was the perfect thing to use as a winter outhouse seat.
More than two hours had passed by the time our chores were done outside. The temperature in the cabin was about 35 degrees by then, and the battery-operated clock had warmed up enough to function. It was about 5 p.m., and darkness was upon us.
With growling stomachs, we lit the kerosene lamps and unpacked our gear with the eagerness of opening Christmas presents, ripping into the bags and boxes as we tried to recall where we put what. The highlight came when we located the decadent delight seldom allowed in our Eagle River homeÉcommercially purchased fried chicken that was ready to be warmed in the propane oven.
Tired and exhausted, we enjoyed the 55-degree temperature within the cabin, dressed in long underwear and crawled into sleeping bags at about 8 p.m., arguing over who would get up first to feed the woodstove. Slipping off to sleep on the cabin's floor, we dreamt of the fun to come. There would be ice fishing, cross-country skiing, bird feeding, snowshoeing, rabbit snaring and, best of all, listening to the pop of the wood we had split.
Yes, I'm homesick or cabin crazy.
