Cabin Journal

In the Bleak Midwinter

Driving up to the cabin this week, the winds were strong enough to nudge my car off the road and onto the shoulder. At the cabin, the driveway was blocked by a limb that had been blown off a nearby pine tree. The winds had torn off the sign on the cabin and tossed it into the side yard, and ripped the wind chimes from the post on the tree in front of the cabin. Even the door to the cellar had been blown open, exposing the underside of the cabin. Not even the birds dared to come out in these strong, destructive winds, probably above 60 mph with gusts of up to 90.

It was one of the bleakest landscapes I’ve experienced at the cabin. Much of the snow from the past month had melted and froze in a repeated cycle, cementing the snow into hard shapes. Not just hard but dirty, as the winds had picked up the loose dirt from bare spots and scattered it across the remaining snow, now covered in black grit. From the road, I saw several tall pine trees blown over and smashed in several pieces.

Around this time of the year and on days such as this, I’m so desperate for any signs of new life that I almost hallucinate colors for the landscape. Looking out my window that morning, at first glance I saw the tender new leaves of aspens, but we’re still at least three months away from spring here. At second glance, I’m looking at the just slightly paler needles of a fir tree, lighter than the ponderosas around it.

The next day the winds were a bit calmer, although the skies were gray and ponderous, and the thin clouds blanched everything. Even Mount Meeker was just a pale smudge on the horizon. I had to force myself to leave the warmth and coziness of the cabin for my afternoon walk.  

Once outside, I look for the solace of nature. I find it in the lone cry of an unseen bird, in the gray and white clouds building up that resemble spring rain clouds, in the slight smell of moisture in the air, and in the chickadees’ cheerful cries, as they dart from tree to tree.

In the fenced field, I’m happy to see the two Scottish Highland cattle, which I look for on each walk. Even these animals that are bred for the worst of Scottish gales and cold are bowed by the weather and huddle on the ground together. As I approach, one stands up, as if to guard the other. Perhaps this is a couple, and he is protective of her. I’m overwhelmed by the tenderness of these large animals with their sad-looking eyes.

Down the road, in a thicket of aspen, trees that have been felled in previous windstorms are now held up by other trees that seem to cradle them in their arms.

There is this now: the tenderness of nature when everything is harsh.

 

The Sweet Pleasures of a Wood Stove

One of the great pleasures of winter is enjoying a fire in the wood stove at the cabin. It’s a real fire with real wood that comes from real trees—a luxury in our increasingly urbanized environment. Most cities and towns in Colorado have outlawed fireplaces, because the smoke contributes to the air pollution along the Front Range. But my mountain cabin is far enough from the concentration of towns—and humans—that its small output doesn’t measurably affect the air quality—or at least that’s my hope.

Meanwhile, urban dwellers are only allowed gas fireplaces—real flames but arising from metal logs. For those who can’t have gas fires, there’s electric heaters that display moving pictures of fire. So strong is our urge  for fire (at least the controlled ones; wildfires are a different matter) that even fake fires are better than nothing—especially on cold days when it’s snowing.

There must be something buried deeply in our brains, going back to our human beginnings, that associates a fire with a sense of comfort and safety. I was at a Wisconsin resort last fall where a bonfire was lit on the beach every night. Not only did the fire keep away the cold, but it brought together our small circle of humans—some bulwark against the darkness and dangers of the black night.

Getting and keeping a fire going takes some work—chopping logs and storing them in the shed, plus tending to the fire all night. Flipping the switch on a gas stove is a lot easier. But there are real pleasures to be had with a wood-burning stove or fireplace. If you pay attention, a good fire settles the mind like nothing else, because there’s just enough action to keep the mind focused and firmly planted in the present moment, while leaving some gaps for awareness.

I can sit there for hours (and I have) watching the logs burn. With each new log, the silky flames change colors—from yellow to orange to red to blue—and configurations: leaping upward or reaching sideways; embracing the logs and then fleeing them.

Besides the ever-changing visual show, there’s the sound of the wood as it disintegrates—crackling and popping, sometimes sending embers onto the floor—and the quiet whoosh of the winds created by all that motion and energy, flowing upward into the chimney. Each type of wood— pine, spruce, juniper or old fence posts— brings its own fragrant smell—and story.

Right now, I’m burning a log that came from a Russian olive tree planted next to my house in Boulder some 20 to 30 years ago. From the bedroom I could watch the leaves shake in the wind and see the squirrels and birds in its branches. But in its death, I continue to enjoy its presence—and essence.

Each log has a beginning and end, and I’m watching the end of one story.  Although the specifics are different, the stories have the same trajectory:  each tree starts with a seed that is nurtured by a combination of nutrients from the earth and carbon dioxide from the air. Now, as the fire destroys the last material elements of these trees, the wood releases the carbon dioxide that helped it grow—carbon dioxide that another tree will use to thrive.

As I watch, in my small wood stove, the end of one cycle of life and death, I’m overwhelmed by an appreciation for how life works, and a tenderness and gratitude for the tree’s final gift of heat.