The Cabin in January

The cabin in January is filled with winter. I treasure the flames in the wood stove and the soft light of the propane lanterns that keep the cold and the dark at bay. If we were hibernating creatures I’d find it the perfect choice to wait the coming of the sun. Wrapped in down and buried in books I’d happily leave the world behind. Not being bears however, hibernating doesn’t work well for us. Humans risk the side effect of cabin fever. Or the doldrums or blues or whatever down state you want to call it. So we learn instead to embrace the snow. And we reap the rewards.

On the cabin radio the local announcer is giving great detail to the topic of the morning, exactly the minute the sun rose, the minute it will set, and with a hint of excitement in his voice, “that’s two more minutes to the day, a gain of a full 10 minutes since solstice.” Some minutes more than 5 hours total and increasing everyday.

Our solstice doesn’t make it here until a full month after Solstice Day. We can see sun shine high in the trees on the ridge to the north, witness to the sun behind the ridge to the south, but our valley is still shrouded in winter’s dim light. Everyday we watch with anticiparion, imagine the sun getting higher as we mark its shine slowly inching down the north slope until one morning it makes it over the southern ridge and splashes through the cabin windows onto the kitchen table and up against the maple paneling of the pantry door. A warm glow. That little uptick of sweet pleasure. Natural high. 

Until then we live in the beauty of a black and white world wrapped in the winter quiet that comes with the snow. Without sunlight the green of the spruce is more black than green, the delicate pinks and ambers and golds in the white bark of the birch disappear in the white. Snow clings to every curling twig and tendril. The ground is white. Even the sky.

Water Ouzel

I love how the winter birds fit into the scene. Muted shades of black and white in the gray jays. Black-capped chickadees hiding their soft, almost yellow, belly feathers under their wings. 





The water ouzel does it best, its slate gray feathers perfectly tuned to the color of the creek it lives in. I find the ouzel only when he flies over the stream.

                                                                                                                                                                 

Hairy woodpecker is black and white as well but the tiny shock of red feathers on the crowns of the males put them somewhat out of step. As for the  frisky redpoles with their rosey pinks and reds, they rarely appear before the sun returns. 

Instead of hibernating we tackle the necessary chores that winter brings. The bridge is relieved of its foot of snow. The snow on the roof is raked as is the roof of the wood shed. The snow machines are greased and oiled and fired up. 

Dan drags the trails. Empty propane tanks are replaced with full tanks hauled up from the tracks were the railroad delivered them. The empty tanks are loaded on the sled and hauled to the tracks. When our tanks are delivered empty tanks from neighboring cabins are collected and delivered as well. All part of the local habit of cabin dwellers helping each other out. Towards the end of our stay we haul wood from the wood shed to replenish the wood boxes by the stoves and notice its almost time to get in a new supply. Maybe in March when the days are longer.

In between chores we take time for play making the most of the world that’s offered. I take time off for an easy trek through the woods, no skis or snowshoes needed on the hardened snowmachine trail, and forget how quickly it gets dark until I can’t see the trail very well. There’s no moon. I’m thinking I’d better be getting back or Dan will come looking for me when right on cue I hear his far off voice calling. I shout back but I doubt he hears me. I pick up the pace partly racing against the daylight disappearing completely, partly to ward off Dan from the unnecessary trip to fetch me and make it back to the cabin just in time to see his snowmachine light come on. No he didn’t hear me. Nice to know he’s always there in the wings. 

We take time out for a snowmachine excursion through the back country to the neighbors up on the lake. As often happens I end up thrown, coming around a bend and watch my machine travel down the trail without me as I flounder around in soft snow trying to find my feet. Then I hike down the trail 20 or 30 feet where the machine has stalled and sits waiting  along with Dan whose ready to start it up. Other times we meet the train and haul in another neighbor to his cabin, or we run into the young trapper on the trail in a hurry to check his traps while its still light and have a quick chat. 

Too soon its time to leave. We load up the sled and head for the train with me on the back of the sled, my own machine left in the shed until we come back. Much more to my liking.

How I love that ride, winding our way through the rolling woods, me standing on the back of the fold-a-sled, warmly wrapped in silk and down and fleece and fur, soft flakes falling gently on my face, just drinking in the beauty. Sweet.