by Christine Maccabee
Wild Cabins I Have Known
Sometimes a book comes along that speaks to us in very personal ways. Such a book was written by Gerard Kenney, whose discoveries of remote one-room cabins in the Canadian wilderness reflect my own need for peace and quiet. By canoe and by foot, he and a dear friend spent years adventuring together, contemporary explorers of flora and fauna and, yes, wild cabins.
All the cabins they stumbled upon were far off the beaten track, and each one was uniquely different from the other. Some were better furnished than others, with at least one cot, if they were lucky, and frequently a nice old tin wood stove. If they were lucky, the last people there left enough dry wood for them to take the chill off. Some were very well made, though not as aesthetically as a Tiny House, and others were slapped together quickly by someone many years before as temporary living quarters, while they fished and rested during their canoeing journeys.
Most of these cabins were so remote that they were mostly unused, so Gerard and his friend felt like they “owned” them, like the Philosophy Cabin, as they called it. They also felt like they “owned” the trickling brook, which they named Philosophy River. “Whose cabin is it?” someone once asked. “It’s ours,” they replied, “as are the pond, the forest, and the swamp.” They were like two kids on a playground where nobody goes.
While in my twenties, I had just such a remote wild cabin experience. I do not know the history of that tiny cabin, but surely someone had lived there at one time. It was pretty shabby and slightly tilted by the time I discovered it, but it served my purpose of needing to escape to a quiet place. It had no running water or electricity, of course, so occasionally I would use facilities at an old mill house nearby; otherwise, I roughed it. It was there that I wrote a song, which I still sing with my guitar now and then:
“In the morning of my youth I turned to you,
Sought the beauty of the deep and the friendly woods,
Sang your praises when I saw the sun that rose
Like a blessed lamp, sacred light upon the trees.”
Such experiences are indeed sacred, though sometimes lonely. Fortunately, I happened to have my two sweet dogs with me as companions. Of course, they loved the woods, too. Now, many years later, I live in a large house, where I raised three children, but I still long for the simplicity of a one-room cabin. Actually, I do have a nice little cottage, as I call it, just steps away from the house. Just the other day, I made a nice fire in the wood stove there. These days, I am not so eager to live there due to injuries I acquired over the years; but, every now and then, I heat up the place while I contemplate my life.
Prior to this little cottage, I had a yurt put up out back. “So what is a yurt?” you ask. A yurt is a round structure that is used by sheep and camel farmers in Mongolia, easily taken down and put back up, as they migrate in the summer and winter months. The concept is much like that of a tipi. Modeled after those ancient yurts, my yurt was a contemporary structure, sold by the Colorado Yurt Company, and brought here in pieces by an 18-wheeler—not very rustic, eh? However, it served its purpose for me as an escape from the “big house” and was beautiful inside. Outside, it did not look like much, but inside, it had antique furniture, a large yodel wood stove, a large bed, a sofa, a desk, tongue-and-groove wood floors, and many personal items. Sadly, five years ago, it was completely destroyed by a fire. Nothing lasts forever.
Memories last longer than things, and the memories I have of such one-room, wild “cabins” will last a lifetime. They served me well as part of my spiritual journey through life, and, like Gerard Kenney, they provided an escape to—not from—the wilderness, a chance to become better acquainted with myself and with nature.
I highly recommend Gerard Kenney’s book, Lake of the Old Uncles, especially if you are unable to have a wilderness experience yourself—he will take you there!
