The Cabin
In Wisconsin the best place to enjoy the beauty and
bounty of Nature was, and still is, “up north”.
That is true whatever “up north” means to you, because I discovered that
the term is relatively relative, depending on what part of the state that you
call home. For me, while growing up, that mostly meant
camping the Nicolet and Chequamegon National Forests, and even including the Ottawa
National Forest of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
My birth family I guess you could say were “up north” nomads. When we were reliant on our Coleman cabin
tent for shelter, our family adventures were limited to Boulder Lake near
Mountain, Wisconsin. The summer before I
entered sixth grade, my parents upgraded to a pop-up camper trailer that
increased our mobility greatly.
In my freshman year of college my first major purchase
was my own Coleman cabin tent, as well as a lantern, cook stove and heater, and
I began to wander “up north” on my own, and then later with my wife and children.
Even though I always enjoyed camping, in the way back part of my brain, and
the deep part of my heart, I wanted a cabin – a real place to call “home”. My dreams were mostly consistent. It would be a simple, one-story place with a
large covered front porch and a fieldstone fireplace. The only real variable was whether the cabin
overlooked a trout stream or a lake.
I think that I developed my dream of a cabin from two
of my friends who had family cabins. In
one case I should have been more skeptical because most years I was invited
twice – once in the spring to help put the dock in the water, and once in the
fall to help pull the dock out of the water.
I wasn't totally naïve about it; it seemed a good trade to me – a full
weekend of fishing or hunting in exchange for a couple hours of work. My other friend with a cabin invited me many
times without any agendas other than to enjoy the season. It was during weekends at their shack that I
learned how to cross-country ski and develop my trout fishing skill and hone my
aim at ruffed grouse.
“Up north” is a magical place, in the true sense of
the phrase. In my imaginings of my cabin,
whether I was rocking on the porch sipping hot coffee, tensing at the crunch of
leaves behind me that must be that big buck, or watching a size 14 elk-hair caddis
settle like dandelion fluff over the dark water where big brown trout lay finning below, the time of day is always the same. It is the time between when the sun slips
behind the western horizon and when the first star appears. The time when the lake settles and even the
tiny ripples melt into stillness. The time that
the simple blue sky suddenly bursts with colors that must be the echo of angel
choirs. The time that the constant
chatter of songbirds hushes and the piercing calls of the loon and whippoorwill
fly back and forth across the lake. The
time when trout rise dimpling the surface of the river and telling where the
next cast should be. The time when the
heavy-antlered buck shakes off his stiffness and steps onto the trail that passes
by your deer stand. It is the time when
dewfall settles silently and campfire smoke always scents the air. Some call it dusk, some twilight. To me, it is the fullness of time, however
otherwise measured.
On our 25th anniversary, which was 20 years
ago now, my wife gave me my cabin. It is
etched into the surface of a coffee cup.
It turned out to be the only picture of my cabin that others have seen,
although I still see it vividly in my mind.
When I retired we spent serious time searching and considering where the
cabin might possibly become reality, but the larger reality that we wanted to stay
near our children and grandchildren settled the matter. But there is no bitterness. Some unlived dreams are never empty as long as you
use them to flavor the richness of your lived life.
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
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