The rain came down in torrents. I had to duck my head, staring grimly at my feet as I trudged up the rugged slope to my cabin just below the crest of the continental divide. It was hard to tell if the swirling wind, or rain mixed with biting sleet was colder. All I knew was I couldn't wait to get inside the snug confines of my dry retreat from this miserable weather. I turned the handle pushing the door open with my shoulder
I stamped my wet boots, shaking the wet hair from my eyes. "Shit, it's cold out there." I muttered to myself as I threw my over-sized pack on the floor.
The windows were shuttered tight, against a long winter's snow-pack, now melting under the deluge of spring rain outside. Approaching dusk, what little light there was barely filtered across the room. I almost didn't see you there. Huddled on the floor, hands trembling as you tried to light the pile of paper and twigs you'd laid on the hearth of the rough stone fire-place.
"Who are you... And what the hell, are you doing in MY cabin?" I demanded.
You ignore my impatient inquiry, trying to stay focused on lighting a fire. I realize that I cannot tell if you are trembling more from cold or from fear.
It should not have surprised me that you are here. For several years now I have left my cabin unlocked all winter, finding that it was easier to replace the few things a lost and weary traveler might need than continually to be installing new hinges and locks on the door. I shouldn't have been so angry either... for now I begin to examine your appearance.
Your clothes are soaked to the point of being worthless for keeping you warm. You hair is matted down like that of an animal in need of grooming. Your hands are white from cold and trembling so much that you cannot accomplish the simplest of tasks that might give you comfort.
"Here," I say, "Let me do that for you."
I take the book of matches, striking one against the rough little strip on the back cover, lighting the whole lot of them from the first, and lay the bright blazing phosphorus flare under the edge of the crumpled paper you found somewhere in my tiny hut, to try to start this fire.
A line of flame creeps along the edge of the paper, soon engulfing the little twigs laid across the top. I open the wood-box to the right of the hearth, withdrawing a half-dozen strips of kindling, and a couple of medium-sized aspen logs. I build a little cabin with the kindling, surrounding the joyous looking flames, and lay the two logs over it.
"How long were you trying to get that fire lit?" I ask.
"I.... I... I don't know." You stammer. "I just was afraid I... I.... I'd never get it lit."
The blaze begins to illuminate the walls of the room, the one room that comprises the whole cabin. I built it about ten years ago. It sits on an old mining claim, patented before anyone heard of the idea of national forests. So here it sits... twenty-three acres... one cabin... but none of the gold that so inspired the first seekers who came to this high mountain region.
The lake you will see, when I unboard the window in the morning, is too small to be of much interest to tourists. The little tract of land I own has no access, so everything is hauled in on my back, in a pack. The logs I hewed by hand, without aid of power tools and, I must confess, it shows.
But I love the isolation, the rugged beauty of the land, the absence of roads or trails for miles around. An intruder... even one in such dire need, was not what I anticipated as I set out to visit my little hide-away this afternoon.
I cross the room, reaching to get a small kerosene lantern from the shelf above the mantel. Deciding there is enough of the dyed-red fuel to last for a while, I light it, trim the wick, and set it on the table against the far wall.
My eyes return to you. You are still scared. I can see it in your posture, in the impossibility of meeting your gaze, in your hesitancy to speak.
"Where's your pack... your camp? How did you end up here?" I wonder aloud.
But there still is no answer.
I open the rough-hewn cedar chest at the foot of my bed, retrieving a couple of dry towels and the sheepskin bedspread I keep packed in there when I am not using the cabin. I sit on the floor behind you. Your hands struggle to maintain the balance between soothing warmth and getting burned in the bright blaze before us.
I lay one towel over your shoulders, as I begin to dry your hair with the other.
I feel your stiff neck and shoulders begin to relax just a bit.
"You really should get out of those clothes, unless of course you want to die of hypothermia."
You continue to stare at the fire as I open my pack and pull out an old, but clean pair of sweat pants, and a warm fleece pull-over.
"Put these on!" I say a bit more firmly. "And I'm gonna get changed out of this stuff."
I pack all of the things in my cabin in plastic bags inside metal army surplus boxes. Otherwise there is no keeping the rodents out. For such a small place, 16x20 feet, it really contains quite a lot: photography equipment, my favorite writing, eating, meditating, beer-drinking table, a simple but complete kitchen, fishing gear, climbing equipment, all the clothes I might need for any conditions at 10,500' in the Montana wilderness.
I find myself another old pair of sweats, wipe my own hands off on a towel, and dry my hair.
"Go ahead... you can change... I'm not the Unabomber or anything."
Finally... I detect the hint of a smile.
As I busy myself changing, unpacking, rearranging my things, you manage to get into some dry clothes. I'm still irritated enough at having my perfect evening... my time to busy myself with meaningless chores, to reacquaint myself with these old surroundings, to perhaps finally get some real writing done... that I am less than a perfect host.
