Cabin Journal

The Rare Pleasure of a Cold Day

At the cabin two weeks ago, the temperatures were unseasonably warm—hovering around 50. Warm enough that I could leave the front door partially open, so I could hear the winds and the calls of the jays, warm enough that when I built a fire later that night, the cabin got so hot I had to open the door to let in cool air. I can’t say I minded the warm weather; it made everything so much easier.

Last week, however, winter returned. The high Wednesday was 20, but with a strong wind it felt more like in the teens. By the time I went to bed, the temperature was flirting with 4 or 5 degrees. Everything in the cabin was chilled: the couch, the floor, dishes, books, the bed, clothes; the frigid air penetrated the refrigerator, freezing all the vegetables. My cup of tea turned cold within a few minutes. Cold air poured in from below, through the electrical outlets, the windows, around the chimney, every seam in the wall.

When I stepped outside briefly to take a photo, the cold air attached itself to me, so I carried back inside a frigid shield around my body.

And yet I treasure this weather. In this increasingly warm climate, such days are becoming rare. A friend in Wisconsin tells me that this month they’ve gotten rain instead of snow. In the Northeast, sales of winter clothes are sinking as nobody needs parkas and gloves. I feel fortunate that here in Colorado we still have enough cold days to get snow, that Meeker Park is blanketed in white, even if it means I have to shovel out driveways.

When I was 12, my father took some of the family to our northern Wisconsin cabin in winter, where the daytime temperatures were 20 below zero. Because the cabin has no central heat or plumbing, we stayed warm by huddling close to the fireplace. Going to the outhouse in the morning is an experience I’ll never forget. You don’t know cold until your bottom is exposed at below zero temperatures. Yet we had fun—skied, walked to the inlet to collect water for drinking, ice skated on the frozen black lake. I remember that time fondly and vividly.

Cold days keep you alive, awaken all your senses. When I went for a walk around Meeker Park last week, I was bundled up as much as I could, wearing thick and heavy boots, so I moved slowly and deliberately through the deep snow, which thankfully was light and airy, rising up into small whirlwinds. On days like this, there’s no languishing, no sitting by the pond and daydreaming; I keep moving to keep the blood running.

When I stopped amid the shelter of a small grove of ponderosa pines, I found a bit of sun and respite from the wind. With only seven hours of daylight now, that warmth and light felt precious.

A Wild Basin

One of my favorite winter trails has become the Sandbeach Lake Trail in Wild Basin, only a 10-minute drive from the cabin. I’ve never made it to the lake, which is more than 4 miles up, but the first two miles of the trail are all I need: a good, steady climb so I feel energized by the exercise, views across the valley and west to the high, snow-covered peaks, and the utter pleasure of walking through a forest of tall ponderosas.

Below me the North St. Vrain River snakes through willow bushes, almost double-backing on itself at times, enough to form ponds, now frozen. I spot them from up here on the trail and feel a longing to skate on these hidden treasures before the snow covers them up.

Down in the valley the pines form a respectful circle around the river and willow bushes. They climb up the hills and down the other side, a dark green that dominates the landscape. To the west, I get glimpses of Copeland Mountain (left) swirled in snow.

On the trail, I’m deep within the trees. The lovely thing about ponderosas is that they like to spread out, giving you enough room to get glimpses of the valley below or up the hill to the interlocking boulders. They provide space once in a while for a small aspen grove to emerge and let light penetrate these otherwise dark woods. At the same time, they offer a feeling of protection—unless, of course, a tree falls on you.

 

That’s what happened several years ago on this trail, on a day much like today, with the wind shaking the trees and causing a horrible creaking sound when branches and limbs rub together. A hiker was killed when the strong winds uprooted a tree that crashed just where he was walking. The accident doesn’t dissuade me from hiking this trail. If you happen to be in just the place where one tree, out of thousands in the woods, falls on you, it must be your time.

Fortunately, Tuesday was not my time. It was only another day that I was lucky enough to be in the mountains, climbing a trail that easily could have gone to heaven, smelling the pines, feeling the cold, clean rush of air and bowing to the trees that bow so fervently back.

Winter Light

Suddenly, it seems, after months of warm, beautiful sunny days, winter descended in all its bleakness. I arrived at the cabin under cloudy skies, temperatures in the 20s, cold winds, the ground covered in snow, any traces of grasses mostly buried. The pond and creeks are not just frozen but smothered in snow.

Chipmunks and ground squirrels have gone undercover, and the only birds I see are the blue Steller’s jays. Where have the juncos and nuthatches gone, which were zig-zagging up and down the ponderosas just a few short weeks ago?

Last week, it was still autumn, or pretended to be. The willow bushes in the valley bottom were a palette of rust, bronze, gold and green. In some vision of plenitude, the tall, golden grasses filled the valley. But this week, they’re squashed down by the snow, caught in its grip.

Inside my cabin, after days of temperatures dipping into the teens at night, all the water bottles had frozen (plus the squash I brought up here to store, which I thought would be safe in the refrigerator). The cabin was solidly cold and only grudgingly warmed up from 25 to 50 degrees in the four hours I sat at my computer in my parka and gloves, patiently waiting.

So everything becomes more difficult. I must wade through the snow to get to the pump for a pail of water to wash the dishes. Getting dressed for a hike was a half hour undertaking— bringing my cold boots in from the car to warm up, thawing out the long underwear and parka that had been in the unheated bedroom. Already, I miss those days of grabbing a water bottle and my camera and heading out the door, sauntering carelessly on my hikes. Now, I must tread cautiously on the icy roads or punch my way through deeper snow in the woods. 

And yet this morning, I woke up to sunshine, brilliant sunshine that filled the valley, and reached into the cabin. How could I have forgotten that clear light that spills across the white snow? Or how bracing the air feels on a cold, snowy morning?