I remember my first winter at the cabin, arriving after the first cold snap and finding that all the aluminum cans—of water and pop—had exploded in the refrigerator, leaving a huge mess. The ancient refrigerator’s skin was too porous to protect the food inside, including salsa, salad dressing and pickles, which all froze. Inside the kitchen cabinets, the olive oil had congealed, and the gallons of drinking water had frozen.
I got a refresher course in science: water expands when it freezes. I learned my lesson, now taking home any cans before temperatures dip below freezing. I empty the rain barrel outside; the ceramic jug inside, which holds my drinking water in summer; and the plastic pails that I use to haul water from the pump. In late fall after I re-stain the deck, I bring any leftover paint home because otherwise I just wasted $40 worth of paint that will freeze.
In winter, the chores seem endless, and yet it’s satisfying to take care of the cabin, under sometimes adverse conditions, like shoveling my way to the water pump when there’s two feet of snow and from the driveway to the front door. After I deplete the firewood from a night of keeping the woodstove going, I need to haul in more from the shed.
Yet, despite all the work to keep the cabin maintained, I love the winter. Before Christmas, the roads were (relatively) full of cars carrying Christmas trees, coming back from designated Forest Service spots. Now that the season has passed, the roads are almost empty. Many of the cabins (above) are boarded up. When I go for a walk, it’s just me and the Highland cattle out there.
This winter has been mild, and some days are warm enough (in the 40s) to bask outside in the sun. Yet the snow on the south side of the cabin, left over from a big storm a few weeks ago, hasn’t melted, and the creeks and ponds are frozen and covered with snow, although I can hear the slight sound of water gurgling under Cabin Creek. All good signs that it’s winter.
When I go for a walk, I have to pull my collar up and tighten the scarf around my neck. I love the strong winds of winter, which buffet me, the trees and grasses. After the heat of summer and fall, I’m eager for the force of fresh air—minus pollution and smoke from wildfires. The cold makes me feel alive, and my survival instincts are aroused.
I’m just as happy to be back inside the cabin, getting a fire started in the woodstove. It seems like a small miracle—trees that once stood upright, that pulled nutrients from the earth and carbon dioxide from the sky, that once stood so tall while rooted in the earth—can now, in their demise, provide heat. Not just heat but comfort. It feels like a gift from nature that is now giving up its last breath.
And yet I know that the flames that are providing warmth for me are destroying thousands of homes and lives in Los Angeles. I feel both humbled and fortunate to be able to sit in front of this small fire, soothed by the crackling sounds and by the flames that mean no harm to me, but leap and clutch at the air.
Outside in the Colorado mountains the darkness is almost complete, lit only by moonlight, while winds shake the cabin. Beyond is a world that feels increasingly shaky and full of dangers. But inside I feel safe in this circle of warmth.