When I leave the paved road I still have three and a half miles to go straight up. The crunchy sound under my tires is a good thing. It tells me there may be enough traction on the wintered road for my car to make it to the top. I think about the undercarriage and wonder how much the mechanic will ask for when something finally gives in to the abuse. I make it to where the road no longer has a public name. We have affectionately christened it The Mountain Road as opposed to Big Mountain Road, which is another story on the other side of the north valley. I know because the natives are a trusting lot that a bulldozer came through here at least once but it appears more like the remains of a dried up waterfall with abyss like ruts and bulging boulders. Adding the ingredient of Winter and Spring battling it out for squatter's rights the terrain changes to ice made of steel and gut sucking mud.
I try to divide my car between the two from an uncertain belief that they are competing with each other and not I. I think I can hear them laughing and taunting each other with self-exclamations of victory as I get out to survey my situation. It appears I can go no further.
I now have the daunting task of backing down to a more suitable resting place or risk the plight of my tires freezing overnight in the deep mud. I end up parking near to the bottom and hike up with my arms loaded with water and lantern oil. I know the temperature is dropping fast and I listen for the sounds of the popping sugar maples. One near slip and I return to concentrating on the placement of each of my boots. I remind myself that there will be no one to find me until the weekend and quickly absorb the seriousness of these simple movements.
Before going inside I scan the sky down to the horizon. The clouds are gray and thick with one perched over the neighboring mountaintop like a giant vulture's nest. To the far northwest there is a weak spot and I get a peak of the setting sun. I take a picture in my mind to compare it with when I look again. This better than the weather radio gives me the forecast for the night ahead.
The log cabin is welcoming. She knows I will warm her insides soon and keep her in quiet company. I smile at the thought of my friend, the cabin maker, who must have tidied up during his visit a few days ago. He will deny having done so for my sake but will be waiting to hear my words that I recognized his deeds. Then I notice he has berthed the hunting rifle over the window and I take back any appreciation I had for his thoughtfulness. I consider taking it down and putting it back in the loft but I refuse to touch it. I laugh because I know he will also be waiting for my assault on him for having done this.
The cabin is a single large room forty feet by twenty with windows on two sides if we do not count the one porthole shaped window that is in the rear wall. It is there so we can shoot at uninvited guests with bullets of thoughts that say, "Do not disturb us." The North wall has one large window that looks out to the woodshed. A table eight feet in length made of leftover logs is built into the corner under the window. It holds our essentials; food supplies on top and firewood underneath. It is also a good place for elbows when they are tired of holding up a head full of thoughts.
The front wall faces the west, crammed full with mountains and valleys. The three large windows second as a movie screen with the capricious sky the starring attraction. A catwalk connects two lofts above me. It is where I will sleep tonight with the misguided notion that field mice do not climb stairs.
The stillness of Winter allows for the almost unwelcome sound of an occasional truck rumbling on its way North to Canada along the highway in the valley. In the other seasons we cannot hear them. The only other sound is the constant and comforting music from the woodstove. At first it spits and sparks as the kindling ignites. Then it clangs almost in protest to the changing temperature of the metal but finally sinks into a continuous happy melody. I have settled into the couch with a book to finish.
I jump suddenly and my stomach turns. It sounded like something was coming quickly around the outside of the house. A snowmobile with a very good muffler pops into my mind. At the same time it reminded me of high ocean surf at the beach. It was similar to the sound of thick sheets of snow sliding slowly off the metal roof.
That would have been my choice for a culprit but I knew there was not enough snow for that tonight. I listened and waited for it to repeat. I nervously sipped my Diet Coke. There it was again but whatever it was it stopped as soon as I heard it. I bravely looked out the window but nothing was there. I felt safe and I let my body assume that I was. I washed down more crackers with soda and nearly spit it all out with my laughter.
The cabin was so very quiet what I was hearing was the fizzing sound of the soda mixing with the salty cheese crackers in my mouth. I did it again to test my theory and I was thankfully correct.
The house is warm, my hunger settled and I wonder about the deep quiet that is my only companion. I smile knowing that to ward off my encroaching imagination I will soon go to bed and sleep as long as the mice do not climb the stairs.
© 2012 
