Alone at the cabin ~ January 21, 1993

David Heiller

The cabin sat on top of a high hill overlooking Moose Lake. Below you could see two islands, pine covered and rocky. They looked like ships in a smooth white ocean.

We had to ski there first. I insisted, with a hunger that I couldn’t explain. Moose Lake, not the one in Carlton County but the one northeast of Ely, is a jumping-off spot into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. I had seen it from the front of a canoe three springs ago, had followed it through Newfound and Ensign and Missionary Lakes and beyond to an eight pound lake trout, the nicest fish I ever caught. And with the nicest friends too.

So last Friday afternoon, Cindy and I strapped on our skis and headed up Moose Lake with a wind at our back and the sun setting low in the southwest sky. We broke our own trail for about half a mile, until I hit slush and my skis turned into two-by-fours of ice and snow.

Stopping for a sunset.

We headed for shore, and picked up a dogsled trail. It was slick. The slushy spots had frozen over. We flew along for three miles to the end of Moose Lake, to where it joined Newfound Lake.

There wasn’t much to see with just your eyes. The lake twisted around a bend and disappeared amidst the jack-pine. But it was the promise of adventure, both past and present, that I was seeing. From the Root Beer Lady and Sigurd Olson on down to Dave Chasson and his ALC students, all wanting to follow the water, to see what lies around the next bend.

WE HEADED BACK TO THE CABIN, the wind in our face forcing tears, and I felt better for peering into the north country. I had it out of my system, which is maybe why I started this column with it. But that wasn’t the main reason for this trip, and it isn’t the main reason for this column.

Cindy and I were the main reason.

For the first time in more than five years, we were alone for a weekend. No kids, no family, no friends, no newspaper convention. Just us and a cabin.

Mike Vosburgh, the owner of the cabin, showed us the woodstove and how to use it. He told us about the sauna, and how to use it. Cindy and I smiled and listened politely. This was just like home, we thought.

But it wasn’t just like home. It was a cabin in the woods, and we were alone, and there’s no better feeling when you throw those two ingredients into a pot and simmer slowly for two days.

We skied for hours on end, exploring a trail that Mike told us about, then finding another one on our own. We followed the fresh tracks of a moose, saw its calling cards. I wanted to pick one up for Noah, but something stopped me. Maybe a bit too much of the civilization that we had left behind.

“Maybe you should take one for Noah,” Cindy said, reading my thoughts, and we both laughed.

I drank quarts of water, like I always do on Boundary Water trips. It tastes better there, colder, fresher. I like to think that it purifies me, but Cindy just thinks it makes me stop frequently, like the moose.

Après-ski cooking at the cabin

We took a walk under a night sky full of constellations. We found Orion and the big dipper and the North Star, just like we see them at home, only here it was at the cabin and we were together and it was better somehow.

We talked, in the car, in the cabin, on the ski trails. We talked about the kids and our families and friends and books and other things both mighty and mundane. Talk came easy.

And we ate. Cindy had packed enough food for a troop of Boy Scouts, and we ate most of it. She bought T-bone steaks for the first time in 12½ years of marriage. She stirred up tomatoes and green peppers and deer steak and made fajitas, which I could barely pronounce but could barely stop eating.

We sat in front of the woodstove and watched tornadoes of flames behind the glass doors.

We hugged and kissed. We drank champagne and fell in love again.

Cabins and skiing and weekends alone are good for that.

When we got back home, we picked up our kids. We were so happy to see them, and they us. Weekends away are good for that too.

Together time.

When we told Noah about the moose trail, he said we should have brought some moose droppings home for him. He wanted to bring them to school.

We told some friends, a couple, about our weekend. “You guys, you guy-as!” the woman kept repeating stretching the words out with a voice full of happiness and envy.

Her husband started fidgeting and I realized we were walking on eggshells with all this talk of a wonderful weekend alone. How many times have I fidgeted like that?

It’s like the weather: everybody talks about it, but nobody can do anything about it.

I DON’T WANT TO BE SO PREACHY as to suggest you can do something about it, you guys. In fact, I feel a bit sappy writing about it. After all, this IS a family newspaper.

So just quit squirming and go find your own cabin.