Cabin Journal

Let There Be Light

The winter days here in the mountains, at 8500 feet, are shorter than the days on the plains where I live, at 5400 feet. That’s because every morning the sun has to work its up way up all the ranges of foothills and then down into the canyons and up into the foothills again before it reaches our small valley, surrounded by hills and mountains.

When I take my afternoon walk, I’m well aware that the sun will slip behind Mount Meeker all too soon. Actually, “slip” is too passive a description. It feels more like the massive mountain has snatched the sun from the sky, abruptly cutting off the day and leaving me in darkness too soon.

On my walk, I keep my eye on the sun’s orbit, how it hovers just above the pine-covered hill to the south. If the trees on the top ridge are taller than the rest, I  momentarily lose my light, so I scurry down the road to where the sunlight—and warmth—are still lingering. There, along the willow bushes and the valley bottom, I’m greeted by two Scottish Highland cattle (left), their thick, shaggy fur helping them withstand our frigid winter nights.

Although we have snow, it hasn’t been enough to crush the tall grasses, which still stand golden and tall. Across the meadow, the tops of the small grove of white aspens catch the last bit of sunlight. When I finally get back to the cabin, I stand on the road, not wanting to go inside yet, not ready to let go of the light, especially as each day gets shorter as we approach the solstice.

Looking to the east, the last of the sun’s rays illuminates the peeling logs of my neighbors’ cabin, where two sagging wooden chairs on the porch sit empty. Beyond, I can see back to the meadow, and my heart aches at this tender light, as if this last burst of sun is being distilled into something pure, as if it could quench some unknowable sadness. Perhaps as we age, those last bits of light seem even more precious.

Then the switch goes off, and the world returns to gray. I go inside, turn on all the lights, close the curtains against the darkness and wait for morning.

Winds Aloft

On the ground, the air was relatively calm, almost eerily so. Most of the time it’s windy at the cabin, especially in winter, so when the trees are standing still, it feels like something is amiss: that the ponderosas and aspens are just poised for another round of bad news.

The sky told told its own story—one of turbulence. Not only were the clouds streaming across the sky, they were being stretched and pulled like taffy, leaving strange formations I couldn’t quite make sense of: large quotation marks, oversized hats, flying saucers, lines of white birds with wings outstretched, and dolphins, sharks and turtles chasing each other across the blue sky.

These were not roiling summer cumulus but horizontal winter lenticulars with a mass of contradictions: dark grey and pure whites, definable shapes and ethereal wisps. It was pure chaos, and my head was spinning to keep up with the constant movement.

The energy of the heavens felt palpable, and I wished I were one of the ravens I see flying above Meeker Park, able to leave this solid ground and dance among the clouds. But I’m down here with the pines and aspens, their roots sunk into the ground, just as surely as gravity keeps my feet on the forest floor. When the wind descends, the trees roll and shake, before it pulls back up into the higher altitudes.

I may be rooted to the earth, but I’m keeping my eyes to the sky.