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The Story Behind the North Cabin
I think everyone has that one special place, that home-away-from-home, that draws them back time and again. Maybe it's not a house; maybe it's a particularly beautiful place in nature, maybe its a campground you revisit time and again. In my case, it's the North Cabin. Located on the north end of our parents' trapline, my brothers and I grew up hearing stories about this distant outpost camp from our father and our uncle, who was trapping with Dad at the time. For years though, we were too young to join them and our North Cabin experience was relegated to vicarious living through their stories and through the pictures that they brought back. But eventually, that changed.
When I (Dale) was 11, Dad was planning his regular outing to the north camp as usual. Trapping supplies were carried from the skinning shed to the trapping sleigh, beaver meat was chopped in preparation for making marten sets, and fuel for the trip was loaded into the sleigh to await his departure in the morning. This time however, as I helped Dad load the sled, he asked if I would like to join him on his northward expedition. Of course, I was delighted that he considered me old enough to take on the journey, and readily acquiesced.
The trail ahead was long, cold, and dangerous. When we left the family cabin the following morning, riding double on a snowmobile that I have now long since grown too large to ride alone, my head was filled to overflowing with stories of The Bog, The Bumpy Trail, and The River; all of which had plunged my Dad and my uncle into countless dangerous situations in the previous years. We reached The Bog shortly after leaving the cabin; a seemingly endless expanse of snow and gnarled, twisted husks of what had once been trees, straining their dried branches like arthritic fingers at the grey-cloud sky. At least, that was how my 11-year old eyes saw it; Dad probably saw it very differently.
I had an irrational fear that I would fall off the snowmobile and that Dad would drive off without noticing my absence. Perhaps sensing this, Dad would reach back frequently to grab my knee reassuringly, reminding me that I was safe. The Bog alone required several hours to traverse, and Dad took the time to explain to me how to navigate it, should I ever need to alone. In the distance was a faint edge of forest; aiming for that alone would most assuredly cause me to miss the trail exiting The Bog, but if I aimed slightly to the left of a large patch of annually-growing 7-foot-high bog grass, I would be on the right path. From there, sticking a hundred meters to the left of the only patch of living spruce, standing like a shadowed island in an ocean of blinding white, would ensure that the trailhead to the Bumpy Trail would be within sight as we neared the far edge.
If these landmarks were missed, however, there was a high chance of missing the trail, likely leading to aimless travelling throughout the bog, until the snowmobile ran out of fuel and I found myself stranded. If that ever happened, I wouldn't be the first, as other trappers had found themselves in similar situations in The Bog, sometimes with fatal results. This has served as a reminder through much of my life, not just while trapping. Keeping sight of moral and spiritual "landmarks" is a crucial practice in life and the only way to help ensure that I don't get swept off-course in the confusion, excitement, and trials that I encounter regularly.
Upon reaching The Bumpy Trail, we had to navigate over frozen muskeg, travelling slowly enough to protect the snowmobile's precious suspension, while still trying to move fast enough to avoid getting caught out on the trail in the ever-encroaching dark. Many times, we had to halt, unhook the sleigh, and pull on the skis while punching the throttle to get ourselves unstuck from the deep snow, but eventually, we made it off the Bumpy Trail to the North Cabin.
What, to many, would look like a simple dirt-floor shack with a moss-covered roof, a rusted and no longer airtight stove, and two uncomfortable beds, to me was the grandest of castles. This was the ultimate "fort," a cabin where Dad and I could stay for a few nights while we bonded and I learned to trap.
Just down the hill from the North Cabin was The River-- a treacherous, serpentine stream that could be covered by three feet of ice in one step, and plunge an unsuspecting trapper into the dark, swirling waters with the next step onto rotten ice. This was where we got our water, carrying our water jugs to the open water below the nearby rapids. The sound of the water gurgling through ice-channels and over those rocks reminds me of that trip to this day. Having noticed some mink tracks while we were collecting water, we set a mink trap nearby and returned to the cabin for the night.
The evening was spent playing "hangman" beneath the yellow light of the hissing gas-lantern, stocking the stove regularly until we had to open the door to cool off the cabin, and eating the baking that Mom had packed into our supply box for us. It was a wonderful time for an 11 year old, and unless I miss my guess, also for a 30-some year old father. The next morning found us standing over a mink in the new trap; the first mink I had ever been a part of catching. The logs of the cabin walls above Dad's bunk acted as a journal of sorts, and to this day, there is a penciled note saying "January 4, 2005. 1 Mink, caught by Dad and Dale."
Shane and Kole each have similar stories they could tell of their first time at the North Cabin. Each of them have a note on the same log, recording the success of their first trapping trip with Dad. Of course, the animals caught are not the success that is recorded there; it is the other information--the names and the dates that illustrate the true success of those trips. For a couple of years, we brothers alternated trips with Dad; sometimes I went north with him, sometimes Shane did, and eventually, sometimes Kole did. Eventually, we got a second snowmobile, the same laughably small size as the first, which allowed both Shane and I to travel with Dad at the same time. We have lots of stories about those trips; about glasses getting lost in The Bog, missed trails, dead snowmobiles, the roof catching fire (three times in a night), getting stranded in a snowstorm in the North Cabin for days on end and being forced to resort to eating bait, returning on a single snowmobile that was so frozen up we had to lean to steer it... So many stories. Someday you'll get to hear them. But somehow, in spite of all these struggles, none of us brothers ever really feared for our safety. It wasn't because we didn't know the severity of our situations; we had heard enough stories to know when we were in bad shape. I think Kole put it best, the day he and Dad were stuck on the trail with a snowmobile-minus-a-piston, a few miles from the North Cabin. When Dad asked if he was scared, Kole simply replied: "No. You're here."
I think that's why the North Cabin has such a special place in our hearts. It certainly isn't because of the luxury beds. I think it's because it reminds all of us of those early days, before Shane and I set off on our own, when we would spend the nights playing "hangman" while the winter winds screamed outside, knowing that we were safe because we were with Dad.
Those are the memories that flood back as I tour through this cabin again this winter, making sure that it is still standing strong against the weather. It's not just another cabin. It's the North Cabin--that beacon of safety in the middle of danger. It's a reminder of what truly matters in life, of the landmarks that guide us through life, and of the importance of family. That is why the North Cabin, rough as it is, is our home-away-from-home.
When I (Dale) was 11, Dad was planning his regular outing to the north camp as usual. Trapping supplies were carried from the skinning shed to the trapping sleigh, beaver meat was chopped in preparation for making marten sets, and fuel for the trip was loaded into the sleigh to await his departure in the morning. This time however, as I helped Dad load the sled, he asked if I would like to join him on his northward expedition. Of course, I was delighted that he considered me old enough to take on the journey, and readily acquiesced.
The trail ahead was long, cold, and dangerous. When we left the family cabin the following morning, riding double on a snowmobile that I have now long since grown too large to ride alone, my head was filled to overflowing with stories of The Bog, The Bumpy Trail, and The River; all of which had plunged my Dad and my uncle into countless dangerous situations in the previous years. We reached The Bog shortly after leaving the cabin; a seemingly endless expanse of snow and gnarled, twisted husks of what had once been trees, straining their dried branches like arthritic fingers at the grey-cloud sky. At least, that was how my 11-year old eyes saw it; Dad probably saw it very differently.
I had an irrational fear that I would fall off the snowmobile and that Dad would drive off without noticing my absence. Perhaps sensing this, Dad would reach back frequently to grab my knee reassuringly, reminding me that I was safe. The Bog alone required several hours to traverse, and Dad took the time to explain to me how to navigate it, should I ever need to alone. In the distance was a faint edge of forest; aiming for that alone would most assuredly cause me to miss the trail exiting The Bog, but if I aimed slightly to the left of a large patch of annually-growing 7-foot-high bog grass, I would be on the right path. From there, sticking a hundred meters to the left of the only patch of living spruce, standing like a shadowed island in an ocean of blinding white, would ensure that the trailhead to the Bumpy Trail would be within sight as we neared the far edge.
If these landmarks were missed, however, there was a high chance of missing the trail, likely leading to aimless travelling throughout the bog, until the snowmobile ran out of fuel and I found myself stranded. If that ever happened, I wouldn't be the first, as other trappers had found themselves in similar situations in The Bog, sometimes with fatal results. This has served as a reminder through much of my life, not just while trapping. Keeping sight of moral and spiritual "landmarks" is a crucial practice in life and the only way to help ensure that I don't get swept off-course in the confusion, excitement, and trials that I encounter regularly.
Upon reaching The Bumpy Trail, we had to navigate over frozen muskeg, travelling slowly enough to protect the snowmobile's precious suspension, while still trying to move fast enough to avoid getting caught out on the trail in the ever-encroaching dark. Many times, we had to halt, unhook the sleigh, and pull on the skis while punching the throttle to get ourselves unstuck from the deep snow, but eventually, we made it off the Bumpy Trail to the North Cabin.
What, to many, would look like a simple dirt-floor shack with a moss-covered roof, a rusted and no longer airtight stove, and two uncomfortable beds, to me was the grandest of castles. This was the ultimate "fort," a cabin where Dad and I could stay for a few nights while we bonded and I learned to trap.
Just down the hill from the North Cabin was The River-- a treacherous, serpentine stream that could be covered by three feet of ice in one step, and plunge an unsuspecting trapper into the dark, swirling waters with the next step onto rotten ice. This was where we got our water, carrying our water jugs to the open water below the nearby rapids. The sound of the water gurgling through ice-channels and over those rocks reminds me of that trip to this day. Having noticed some mink tracks while we were collecting water, we set a mink trap nearby and returned to the cabin for the night.
The evening was spent playing "hangman" beneath the yellow light of the hissing gas-lantern, stocking the stove regularly until we had to open the door to cool off the cabin, and eating the baking that Mom had packed into our supply box for us. It was a wonderful time for an 11 year old, and unless I miss my guess, also for a 30-some year old father. The next morning found us standing over a mink in the new trap; the first mink I had ever been a part of catching. The logs of the cabin walls above Dad's bunk acted as a journal of sorts, and to this day, there is a penciled note saying "January 4, 2005. 1 Mink, caught by Dad and Dale."
Shane and Kole each have similar stories they could tell of their first time at the North Cabin. Each of them have a note on the same log, recording the success of their first trapping trip with Dad. Of course, the animals caught are not the success that is recorded there; it is the other information--the names and the dates that illustrate the true success of those trips. For a couple of years, we brothers alternated trips with Dad; sometimes I went north with him, sometimes Shane did, and eventually, sometimes Kole did. Eventually, we got a second snowmobile, the same laughably small size as the first, which allowed both Shane and I to travel with Dad at the same time. We have lots of stories about those trips; about glasses getting lost in The Bog, missed trails, dead snowmobiles, the roof catching fire (three times in a night), getting stranded in a snowstorm in the North Cabin for days on end and being forced to resort to eating bait, returning on a single snowmobile that was so frozen up we had to lean to steer it... So many stories. Someday you'll get to hear them. But somehow, in spite of all these struggles, none of us brothers ever really feared for our safety. It wasn't because we didn't know the severity of our situations; we had heard enough stories to know when we were in bad shape. I think Kole put it best, the day he and Dad were stuck on the trail with a snowmobile-minus-a-piston, a few miles from the North Cabin. When Dad asked if he was scared, Kole simply replied: "No. You're here."
I think that's why the North Cabin has such a special place in our hearts. It certainly isn't because of the luxury beds. I think it's because it reminds all of us of those early days, before Shane and I set off on our own, when we would spend the nights playing "hangman" while the winter winds screamed outside, knowing that we were safe because we were with Dad.
Those are the memories that flood back as I tour through this cabin again this winter, making sure that it is still standing strong against the weather. It's not just another cabin. It's the North Cabin--that beacon of safety in the middle of danger. It's a reminder of what truly matters in life, of the landmarks that guide us through life, and of the importance of family. That is why the North Cabin, rough as it is, is our home-away-from-home.
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