Roughing It

My late wife and I purchased our mountain property in 2000. Over the next few years, we worked out plans and finances for a cabin, and began building in phases.

The key word here is “cabin.” I had in mind something small and simple. Maybe even rustic. I briefly considered an A-frame, then let that idea wander off into the trees.

“Simple” never made it onto the final prints. Before long, we had something that looks suspiciously like a second home. Just last year, Desiree and I finished the loft. Yesterday, we wired up a big-screen TV to fiber internet, better than what I get at home, and spent the afternoon in the loft watching music videos on YouTube.

So this, apparently, is our version of roughing it.

I’m posting a photograph of Desiree from our time in the loft.

Desiree “Roughing It”

—Mitchell Hegman

My Place in the World

When I was a kid, my mother had to drag me, squirming and sniveling, to the bath or shower. In my reckoning, it was a waste of time. Besides, I earned every speck of dirt I wore.

Welp, over the years, there’s been a radical reversal. I now find showering downright pleasurable, especially at the cabin. I love showering there. It’s a mountain luxury, and for some reason, the water feels warmer. After a day of cutting firewood, poking along the chill creek, or tending a campfire, it lands like a soft massage. And considering we went the first fifteen years of our long cabin-building process without a shower or hot water, I don’t take it for granted.

Frankly, I hate getting out of the cabin’s shower once I start. Yesterday, I stepped in after a late afternoon of sawing Douglas fir rounds.

Pure heaven.

After a while, I called out, “Hey, Desi, grab my phone and come here, please.” When she arrived, I asked her to take a G-rated picture of me in the shower. “This is my place in the world,” I said.

Today, it’s my pleasure to share it with you.

Me in the Cabin Shower

—Mitchell Hegman

About Her Name

Shirly never liked her name, and she always wondered why a decent person would call a tree a western larch when you could call it tamarack instead.

As far as her name went, she wished to be a Belinda. Maybe a Blossom. Why not Enola? A name that opened like a window and let a little light in.

Shirly heard music words in names. And yet she fell for a man simply named Bob. Not much more than a single note, Bob, but sometimes a single note is all a melody needs to begin. He agreed to call her Enola, and she liked the way he said it: Ee-no-LA. A big, bold LA to end with a flourish. A symphony could hardly do better. Easily enough to build a love upon.

—Mitchell Hegman

Thanks, Dad — Thanks, Sun

Among other things, I inherited a bad scalp from my father. As an adult, he was allergic to sunlight and lived accordingly, keeping to the shade and rarely stepping outside without a hat.

While I’m not directly allergic to the sun, my skin is damaged (and now revolting) due to too much exposure as a creek-swimming, field-wandering kid who never wore a hat.

Presently, I am battling psoriasis, folliculitis, and actinic keratoses (pre-cancer). A couple of years ago, I had a spot of squamous cell carcinoma (yes, actual cancer) sliced from my forearm. Strangely, I didn’t feel a thing, during or after, which is notable because I am, by reputation and repeated demonstration, a bit of a baby about such matters.

So, as it stands, it appears I’m one malady away from using every letter of the alphabet. Not that there is any value in that.

—Mitchell Hegman

Observations After Turning Seventy

Observations After Turning Seventy:

• I’m headed in one direction; my memory has taken a side road.
• I had no idea how young forty was until I struck seventy.
• A single project in the yard can leave a trail of connected bruises on me.
• There is no substitute for lifelong friends.
• Spending my retirement stash is way easier than saving it.
• I will never outgrow rocks.
• It’s okay to tell your man-friend you love him; some things are better said out loud.
• Being loud is not a substitute for being correct.
• I now understand why naps were invented, and why they should be defended.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Thought Experiment

Maybe we would do better if we imagined love as limping. Love is a little beat up. Something or somebody is always trying to knock it back or shove it slightly off kilter.

Love is ever a work in progress. Supporting structures come and go. Some are temporary. And while love can be fearless, it can also be overly sensitive and frail, and sometimes unrecognizable.

As a thought experiment, imagine how often you’ve passed by love without knowing.

—Mitchell Hegman

Creekside

There is a certain luxury in having a creek within a stone’s throw of where you are.

First, you should hear creek as “crik,” as I learned to pronounce it in my beer-drinking hometown of East Helena, Montana.

Second, I am presently at my cabin, which places me well within the aforementioned range of proximity to a creek.

Creeks are ever in motion and always busy with the task of seeking downhill. The creek near my cabin is running high at present. The water is over-eager and slap-happy as it reaches through tangles of willow, or dashes across the steeplechase of stone, logs, and earth laid before it.

You can hear the chattering of the creek from a great distance.

Desiree and I walked along a length of the creek yesterday afternoon. The meadow grass is only beginning to thread up through last year’s thatch of dun grass, now laid flat after a winter under snow. The pussy willows are fuzzy with blossoms, providing a place for early bees and butterflies to dine and dance together.

A walk along our section of creek is really a tale of dams. One made of stone, carefully stacked by Desiree; several others made of sticks and mud by beavers. No matter the maker, the water shimmers and blanches, clearing dams. The waters in the pools above are deep and swirled with mystery.

Trout live there.

A creek with trout is a complete thing.

Holy.

Desiree’s Dam

A Beaver Dam

—Mitchell Hegman