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“So do I.”
Summer comes and the days fly by. Soon, it’s half over and I haven’t done a thing to enjoy it. Enjoy yourself along the way. I remember thinking those words as I climbed Bear Butte. So I jump on the opportunity when I see an ad posted on the local classified website from an area resort. Someone cancelled their reservation at the last minute and rather than let the cabin sit empty, the resort owner is offering the cabin to local residents for only fifty dollars a night. We can afford one night.
Scott packs his camera and his fishing rod, Morgen packs her toys, and I pack my old copy of Catcher in the Rye, hoping I’ll have some time to read. We’re ready to go by noon.
It’s an hour drive up the Gunflint Trail to the lodge. The single-lane highway weaves through forests, beside lakes, around look-outs and a moose-viewing area.
The lodge is off the highway, on an undeveloped lake. We climb the steps and enter into an office/store. It’s a good old-fashioned ma and pa place, with a wire brochure rack next to the desk, a cooler of pop and water against the wall, a row of convenience items down the center, and cabin-type gifts in the back.
The owner greets us from behind the front desk and hands us an old-fashioned key. “It’s open,” she tells us, “but here’s the key in case you want to lock-up.”
“Thanks for offering this overnight stay,” I say. “It’s really cool of you.”
She smiles and nods. “Enjoy yourselves.”
Our cabin is down the dirt road, to the right. It’s a two-bedroom overlooking the lake, with all natural woodwork, its own dock, and a fire-ring off the deck. I unpack and make a snack while Scott gets the canoe ready, and then we all climb in and paddle around the lake. There’s a bump on a fallen tree around the point, and we move in to investigate.
“What is it, Morgen?” I whisper.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s a turtle! See?”
She can barely sit still, she’s so excited. “Turtle!” she squeals.
When we’re a few yards from it, it plops into the water. We glide past, looking for other wildlife. Scott wants to see a wolf, and Morgen wants to see a moose. It’s funny, but I almost don’t even care if we see anything. I’m just happy that we’re in a place where we could see wildlife, where there is wildlife.
An eagle soars overhead, and Morgen and I lean back, watching it glide. Scott pushes us through the water, back to the dock. We climb out, and Morgen runs off the dock, up to the cabin and back, for no reason other than to express her happiness. She helps Scott gather twigs for the fire and watches as he lights it. I grab the sandwiches and potato salad from the fridge, and we eat at the picnic table as the fire burns and embers collect underneath.
“Perfect for marshmallow roasting,” I say, placing one on a stick for Morgen. She burns about a dozen of them before producing one that is somewhat edible. After about five of those, she’s had her fill, so she roasts some for us and we pretend to eat them while actually piling them under our folding chairs.
The sun sets, the stars come out, and we sit around the campfire until Morgen can’t keep her eyes open any longer. We move inside, and I tuck Morgen in under the patchwork quilt and sit by her side until she dozes off. Then Scott and I sit in the living room, next to the open window with a breeze off the lake, and empty a bottle of wine.
When I wake up, sunshine is pouring through the cabin windows. The lake, clear as glass, calls us for another canoe ride before it’s time to go. We glide across the water, the warm sun smiling on us. I look back at Scott, paddling us around the lake, pausing to shoot pictures every few minutes. I let myself smile, and it feels so good that I force myself to focus on it. I want to smile more often. I want to feel this simple contentment every day of my life.
Morgen wants to stay another night, but we’ve already spent more than we can afford on the cabin rental and the gas to get here. We have to just appreciate the experience for what it was. It’s time to check out.
The owner is sitting behind the desk of the quaint office/store. While Scott pays our bill, I wander over to the shelves to check out the jars of blueberry syrup, the homemade strawberry jam, and the natural handmade soaps. It reminds me of the stuff people used to sell at the Saturday Market on Salt Spring. I want to learn to make some of this stuff.
That thought, that desire to make things, sticks with me as we drive down the Gunflint Trail and pull into our driveway, and it flutters through my mind as I lie in bed that night, looking past the stained glass butterfly in my window, out at the night sky. Stars come into view and grow bright and brighter outside my window. There are so many things, I realize, that I don’t know how to do. Simple things, real things. I have never made jam or syrup. I have never grown or preserved food. I have never made soap, or anything else I use. Everything in my life, my whole life, has come from a store. Everything. I want to change that.
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