A lone strand less than half way across the spiderweb dangles a single yellow faded popple leaf. Each strand frost covered to where they almost appear the size of sewing thread.
About the cabin is no yard, no lawn, no sitting places, it’s grown in, around, and on, especially on the roof, the moss is inches thick, pillowy to the touch, super moist, clumps easily lift, but I put them back as closely as possible, who knows, it may just be keeping the rain out.
There’s no lock on the door, and as old as it is, still hangs true and tight. Opening it has over the years held a few surprises. Once a pine marten ran out from under the woodstove, but not until we lit it, and we’d been in the cabin for over an hour.
One fall Lord only knows why, what a mouse infestation, snapt traps, five-gallon bucket traps, we coulda made a mice lined parka if we pelted them all out.
Wasp nest in the fireplace hearth, just inside the firebox, that was exciting.
The time Mr. Hilders hung his red under britches on the buck pole to dry, he had been hiking a beaver dam, took a tumble, his brother even got soaked getting him out of the pond. His brother later cut the backside off em, tacked the piece of butt flap reddish fabric to the outhouse wall. He burned what was left of them.
For three years straight, somebody hunting lost their hunting knife, A forest’s mystery to be sure. Northern lights, man one time, the sky was just foaming. A glossy gassy glowing swirling collage creamy all over the sky like running colored caramel fresh oozing, we sat up far too late that night I can tell ya.
One hunt, not a stick match anywhere to be found. Long trek back to the country store, and that store’s been gone 30 years or better now.
And truth be told over the years, it’s not the best place to get a deer, me or the others would tell you that. But the rickety old shack holds so much more than a dead deer, and sometimes a few too many mice.
- The Trout Whisperer
