Cabin Memories

It has been nearly a week since we departed the cabin, back for home, after our first visit of the season. Our cabin season lasts from sometime in late March, early April, until the start of November sometime, always contingent upon weather. Those four or so months in between, my sister's and my sturdy, comforting, little log house on the cliff in Sundre is alone to slumber through the darkest part of the winter.

The first visit if the year is always pretty special; the trip up is fuelled by anticipatory energy, from grown-ups, children and dog alike. Alongside the excitement of looking forward to our inaurural visit of the year, my mind turns to a bit of worry: what state will things be in when I arrive? Will the squirrels have found a way in and stored mushrooms everywhere, as has happened in the past? Will we see serious rodent damage? Will there be, as my sister's and my running joke holds, the inevitable long-dead mouse in the bottom of the garbage bin? Or, more ominously, I always allow my mind to flit to the possibility of real violation--will trespassers have found their way to our cabin and done something awful? Lee's attention is usually with the state of the spring, from where we get our water, and the health of the woodpile, which fuels our 2 wodd-burning stoves. The girls want desperately to go check their playhouse, their forest-fort and the Shrek-house at Rocky Beach. I always, always feel the same feeling of relief, and bone-settling contentment when we pull up in front of the cabin, usually in the hours around supper time, and anticipate a glorious weekend ahead.

This last time was no different. There's a certain quiet kind of excitement as we unload everything, get everybody's beds sorted out, get the food under control, and finally have a beverage with a sigh of relief that we're all squared away, and the weekend stands in front of us with all its pleasures. Once the coal-oil lamps are lit, the snacks are out and everybody's hand holds a cold drink, well, the weekend has begun!

We always, always have hysterical evenings, playing games, gobbling chips, yammering away, drinking happily in the knowledge that nobody has to drive anywhere. Mornings are usually late, after a needed lie-in, and then we fuel up with coffee made on the Coleman gas ring, and a big breakfast of pancakes or eggs. The kids are long-gone, usually coming back to home base at the cabin only for food and drinks. Coffee in the sunshine, on the front deck, looking over the Little Red Deer River, can't really be topped.

We often take a picnic/bevvies down to Rocky Beach in the early afternoon, maybe after a nice little nap, and spend ages down at the river. The kids go off into the Shrek House, explore the fallen forest, or wade/swim in the river, depending on the season. We sometimes do a veggie dog roast down at the river, or just eat cheese, crackers, sandwiches, etc, that I have packed down in my neon pink Hello Kitty backpack. (Lee claims that any wildlife will take one look at that backpack, and be gone into the hills in trauma!) We have some drinkies at the river, and just enjoy the perfect peace of the spot.

We walk up top in the field, in the early evenings sometimes, and we have been known to engineer a late-night walk with the kids, chaperoned by at least one adult. Last summer, I saw the procession across the field, from the cabin door, visible only as a row of bobbing glow bracelets as they made their way home from their nocturnal perambulations.

Eating is always great, and somehow, the tacos or spaghetti or whatever we eat tastes better at the cabin than at home. The kids plow through a terrifying quantity of food and drink as they tear around in the lovely, fresh air. The dog(s) are in heaven, too, with sights and sounds entirely missing from their city lives.

The time just goes so quickly, and packing up is always an epic production, and we inevitably feel more and more blah the closer to zero-hour we get. I do my final rounds, closing each set of curtains so there is NO PEEKING (Wyn and I are very particular about this!), cast my eye around the once-again clean and tidy rooms, looking for errant bits and bobs that managed to escape our eagle-eyes earlier, and always, always say good-bye to that beloved, shabby, perfect little cabin till next time. We lock up, load into the car, and make our way away, with more than slightly dampened spirits. We have a car full of filthy clothes, grubby, tired kids, grown-ups and dog, bags of garbage and empties, depleted coolers, baskets of dubious leftovers, and hearts and souls full up to the brim with happy memories. Thanks, little cabin, for all that you've given so many of us for so many years. Here's to many, many more.