The Cabin. Summer Defined.
As a kid growing up in the San Francisco East Bay Area, there was one big event to look forward to every summer. Going to the cabin. Our family cabin is located in the Cascade Mountains, close to Mt. Lassen. It is the second cabin. The first one was located in the Siskiyou Mountains and was swept away in a flash flood.
I never saw the first cabin. It was the cabin my Mom and her generation spent summers at when they were young. The photos from those days are great. All black and white beauty: Mom, Aunt Mary, Aunt Pat, Uncle Ben...all kids back then. And the grown-ups: Grampa & Grandma Dottie, Aunt Carol & Uncle Al, various fishing and hunting buddies...and friends. Both cabins loom very large in our extended family history.
All the cousins in my generation, and now their kids, have big memories that rap all around the cabin. Well, at least I know I do. I feel confident saying we all do. As young cousins, we remember being there all together, like a pack of feral puppies, running around the forest all day and sleeping in sleeping bags on the deck at night. A freedom not to be matched in our "real" lives. It's amazing we lived through some of the antics we got into. Honestly.At night we would do our best to freak each other out, what with all the Bigfoot sightings, bears, axe murderers and general creepy crawly stuff. Some nights it seemed like we didn't sleep at all. I remember all the times I'd wake up and see that the entire sky had changed. All the stars would be replaced by all the other stars. Over and over, at each reawakening. And the falling stars would always scare me. They still do. It's the sound they make.
We got to see our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles feeling the pull of freedom, too. I know now that the moms worked hard keeping us fed and somewhat clean, but at the time we loved seeing them in shorts and sneakers with no socks, laying back and reading, reading, reading... usually on a chaise lounge on the deck, cigarettes and highballs close at hand. Reading was, and still is the favorite way to pass time, especially as we've gotten older.
It was a true life lesson going fishing with Uncle Al or Grandpa Dottie. They tied their own flies for years, but we always used salmon eggs: stinky, sticky little balls colored with #2 red dye. I don't know what the hell they were, but we would carefully put them on our hooks, cast the line up river as far as we could, and watch it slowly drift downstream. Even if you didn't catch a thing, it was a mesmerizing exercise. If you did get a bite, it was too exciting reeling in the poor fish, and yanking it onto the creek bank. Then it would be put into the grass-lined creel, still flopping around like crazy. Back at the cabin the fish were cleaned and then fried with eggs for breakfast, or fried and served with red potatoes and greenbeans for dinner. Because my uncle could never get enough of catching fish, there was always a glut of trout. These extras would be placed vertically in milk cartons filled with water and stored in the freezer. We would not starve at the cabin. At all times there were trout "icicles" just waiting. To this day, years after the passing of Uncle Al, you always must leave a six-pack of beer in the fridge when you leave, just in case of a drop-in visit.
I loved that the cabin was the only place we ever saw Grandma Dottie in "dungarees". Or with a walking stick. Back home, in "real" life, she would never consider using a cane, or be caught in anything but a dress with low pumps. But at the cabin, she walked everyday with her walking stick, wearing her slacks and comfortable shoes. She would walk a good ways, too. Down to the store for her beloved San Francisco Chronicle (she loved the green sports section, and the word puzzles), and often in the opposite direction to the stop sign at the crossroads...a good hike, indeed. Of course, this was only after waking early to stoke the wood stove and get the coffee started. Sweetness, to wake up to the twin fragrances of wood smoke and coffee brewing.
I have very strong feelings for the cabin, for our "Camp Coyote", even though I don't get up there very often anymore. Knowing it is there, the same, is reassuring to me. The world around me spins out of control on so many levels, but I know the cabin is there, waiting to wrap me up in it's smoky embrace whenever I feel the need to be a kid again. I think about the cabin all the time. It's the one place that has remained a constant in my life for 50 years. I walk through that door and smell that cabin smell, check every little thing that I've loved for so long, listen to the sounds that stay the same. To sit on the deck and watch the last light of day, the sun setting on the hills across the way... it is my touch stone. The sound of driving into the driveway, walking to the "waterpipe", tripping out into the first, second or third meadow, going to the store, hiking down to the creek. My kin and I know these things, share these memories as though we were hard-wired together. And in a way I guess we are, in no small part due to the cabin.
Johnny and I were up for a couple of weeks way back in 2008. Since then, I've been up for a couple of days with my brother to close the cabin for winter, and for a couple of hours last year to help close up. Just a tease of a stay. We need to make some serious time, Johnny and I. My inner feral self needs some cabin time. Pronto.
It was a true life lesson going fishing with Uncle Al or Grandpa Dottie. They tied their own flies for years, but we always used salmon eggs: stinky, sticky little balls colored with #2 red dye. I don't know what the hell they were, but we would carefully put them on our hooks, cast the line up river as far as we could, and watch it slowly drift downstream. Even if you didn't catch a thing, it was a mesmerizing exercise. If you did get a bite, it was too exciting reeling in the poor fish, and yanking it onto the creek bank. Then it would be put into the grass-lined creel, still flopping around like crazy. Back at the cabin the fish were cleaned and then fried with eggs for breakfast, or fried and served with red potatoes and greenbeans for dinner. Because my uncle could never get enough of catching fish, there was always a glut of trout. These extras would be placed vertically in milk cartons filled with water and stored in the freezer. We would not starve at the cabin. At all times there were trout "icicles" just waiting. To this day, years after the passing of Uncle Al, you always must leave a six-pack of beer in the fridge when you leave, just in case of a drop-in visit.
I loved that the cabin was the only place we ever saw Grandma Dottie in "dungarees". Or with a walking stick. Back home, in "real" life, she would never consider using a cane, or be caught in anything but a dress with low pumps. But at the cabin, she walked everyday with her walking stick, wearing her slacks and comfortable shoes. She would walk a good ways, too. Down to the store for her beloved San Francisco Chronicle (she loved the green sports section, and the word puzzles), and often in the opposite direction to the stop sign at the crossroads...a good hike, indeed. Of course, this was only after waking early to stoke the wood stove and get the coffee started. Sweetness, to wake up to the twin fragrances of wood smoke and coffee brewing.
I have very strong feelings for the cabin, for our "Camp Coyote", even though I don't get up there very often anymore. Knowing it is there, the same, is reassuring to me. The world around me spins out of control on so many levels, but I know the cabin is there, waiting to wrap me up in it's smoky embrace whenever I feel the need to be a kid again. I think about the cabin all the time. It's the one place that has remained a constant in my life for 50 years. I walk through that door and smell that cabin smell, check every little thing that I've loved for so long, listen to the sounds that stay the same. To sit on the deck and watch the last light of day, the sun setting on the hills across the way... it is my touch stone. The sound of driving into the driveway, walking to the "waterpipe", tripping out into the first, second or third meadow, going to the store, hiking down to the creek. My kin and I know these things, share these memories as though we were hard-wired together. And in a way I guess we are, in no small part due to the cabin.
Johnny and I were up for a couple of weeks way back in 2008. Since then, I've been up for a couple of days with my brother to close the cabin for winter, and for a couple of hours last year to help close up. Just a tease of a stay. We need to make some serious time, Johnny and I. My inner feral self needs some cabin time. Pronto.
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| Johnny giving a big old hug to my favorite road in the world. |
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| The Smoking Rock that marks the 3rd meadow. This rock has a serious habit. |
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| My favorite road has some sweet banking curves, perfect for bike riding. |
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| Johnny likes to paint at the cabin. This is the start of a painting of the Hannah Ranch. Another very favorite spot. |
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| A view down by the creek...I dream of these views on a regular basis. |
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| Last of the sun hitting the tree tops... |
In 2008, I paid tribute to artist Andy Goldsworthy by creating a rock dam across the creek. It took two days to make. I searched the entire area for stones that had a pinkish color, knowing that the effect would be a red dam when the water ran over it. I loved doing this project. It's always a blast splashing around in the water, and soaking up the sun. A few years back, I made a perfect 15' diameter circle of white stones under the shallow water. It looked so cool from above, like an alien had been there. What I love about these little "art works" is that they are very temporary. I doubt anyone else ever sees them, but it would be cool if someone did.
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| A close up of the "red" dam. |
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| The red dam from up above the creek. Oh, and where's the picture of the cabin? It's right here in my head. |
The creak the staircase makes when anyone goes up it...luring jays to the deck with peanuts and ambushing them with squirtguns...experiencing actual dirt, and not the hard-scrabble clay we grew up with in Sacramento...
ReplyDeleteWhen it struck me how small the Cabin looked upon returning for the first time in a while is the moment I realized I'd been gone for far too long.