Disappearing Cabins

On some of my recent travels, I’ve been dismayed to find that old cabins are a dying breed.

Visiting the family cabin on a lake in northern Wisconsin, large modern homes are quickly replacing the ones I knew as a child—with one bathroom, no insulation and primitive plumbing that didn’t allow for showers (we bathed in the lake). Most distressing was the three-story house that has been built in the bay, where I used to see great blue herons among the reeds, turtles on an old stump and, very occasionally, otters. At least the water lilies still float serenely, apparently unperturbed by the speedboats, jet skis and pontoon boats that fill the lake on a busy summer weekend.  

In Michigan, on another lake where generations have enjoyed the cabin life, I found a few traditional cabins—built of knotty pine wood, with low ceilings, rock fireplaces and screened porches overlooking the lake. These old cabins, where the rooms are small, feel cozy and intimate, especially when surrounded by pine and birch trees. Unfortunately, more large houses are being built on the lake by people who want more than one bathroom and desire bedrooms big enough for their king beds and who clear the trees in front so they can view the lake from floor-to-ceiling windows.

When I got back to Colorado, the heat sent me packing to another lake— Grand Lake, the largest natural lake in Colorado. Unfortunately, this once pristine lake has been so overbuilt that it’s hard to find anything natural around its edges, even wildflowers or native bushes. Huge homes, some constructed to look rustic, tower over the lake shore. As I kayaked around one side of the lake, here and there I saw an old cabin tucked behind the trees, as if shrinking back from the overwhelming display of wealth and ostentatiousness now prevalent on this lake.

Even when people build new cabins, it’s not the same. For one thing, the new places are often three to four times as big as the ones that have existed for 50 to 100 years.  The historic ones reflect decades of different owners, each one of whom left their mark: built-in shelves; gingham curtains; wooden deck chairs that might be falling apart; old piles of wood; strange wooden structures that could be ornamental or used for a purpose no longer needed, such as to cover cisterns or old wells; and ditches that carried water from the stream. There’s a sense of accumulated history, of continuity, of people passing on something they loved and treasured.

Yet even as the old, small cabins disappear, there’s still a cabin way of life. Something about being in the woods and or on a lake breeds neighborliness. Most cabins are on narrow, dirt roads. If you walk or drive them, you have no choice but to greet another walker or wave to the passing car.  You’re squeezed together between the trees—a good place to be.

Lots of cabins are family cabins, where the cabin has been passed down through generations. You might not know the person you meet while walking, but you remember their father, or your grandfather and her grandfather used to fish together. Even if there’s no historic relationship, there’s a sense of camaraderie, of sharing this space. When I meet my neighbors on the road around Meeker Park, we’ll compare notes: the hummingbirds have left (too soon!); watch out for the mama moose and her two young ones; do you know who bought the Marshall cabin?

There’s something different about sharing space in the mountains or woods than being neighborly in towns. In the woods, it feels more natural, like how people lived in pre-industrial times, in small villages where a trip to the market meant running into your neighbors. These curving dirt roads, which most often are dead-ends, feel more organic than the straight and symmetrical streets in the cities. In the woods and on the dirt roads, it feels like anything could happen, like running into a moose.

Because they are disappearing, these cabins seem increasingly precious. I have to wonder if the next owner of my cabin will tear it down and put up something more modern, an airtight cabin that doesn’t allow mice, that has a shower and a real stove. Or will there come a time, as the number of old cabins dwindle, that people will start appreciating the simplicity, the intimacy and the closeness to nature?  I hope so.

Comments

[Brent]

I like the old cabins too.

[Richard Eckert]

I have indoor plumbing and hot water but it still feels like a cabin in the
woods. The spiders put up with me. It is comfortable and the wood stove,keeps
it warm.