Moving from city to full-time cabin residency is an easy transition, provided you’re not dependent upon sweeping approval from friends, particularly those whose idea of an “outdoor experience” is a window seat at Olive Garden.
I discovered this reality after moving into a remote perch located at the end of a dirt road along the north side of a pine-packed ridge at 8,425 feet in the Colorado Rockies. Limited to three rooms and a loft, the cabin looked as if built by Habitat for Humanity on a budget in a location only slightly more accessible than North Korea. Despite size limitations it harbored everything I craved in a home: out-the-door access to forest, front and back decks, a visible night sky, wildlife, close proximity to ski areas, and a large fieldstone fireplace for ambience and warmth — everything but endorsement from friends.
When I announced I was abandoning the city for a remote mountain cabin, the majority of my friends expressed the type of astonishment I might have expected if I had declared I was going in on a Myrtle Beach timeshare with Vladimir Putin.
“Aren’t you afraid of a crazed ax murderer breaking into your place?” asked a friend’s wife, implying that murderers armed with medieval weaponry are commonplace in outlying areas.
“Why?” they’d ask. “You’ve got everything here — cineplexes, restaurants, shopping malls.” The question itself provided answer. But rather than point this out, I nodded as if heeding their counsel; an easier response than reciting poet Wendell Berry’s line, “Better than any argument is to rise at dawn and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.”
Even before I’d moved to Colorado I had always exhibited the neighborhood preferences of a marmot, favoring remote over residential. This move was not an abrupt personality deviation, but rather an extension of self. But in the minds of friends, it was inconceivable, prompting me to conclude that if home is where the heart is, a secluded mountain cabin is where your city friends think you’re loony.
It’s easier for people to understand quantum theory than it is for them to grasp the idea of solitude. In today’s connected world solitude carries negative connotations. Openly claim a permanent need for it and people become suspicious, immediately theorizing you’re “up to something” or doomed to the kind of demise only read about in Stephen King novels, living in a place where even the birdhouses are haunted.
Their unease became especially apparent during initial visits. They didn’t know what to say, prompting naive quips and strange questions.
Another friend upon arriving commented, “This is a great place to bury a body, huh?”
“Aren’t you afraid of a crazed ax murderer breaking into your place?” asked a friend’s wife, implying that murderers armed with medieval weaponry are commonplace in outlying areas. I almost answered, “About as much you fear your gated community being attacked by a catapult” but refrained, appreciative for how she modified “ax murderer” with “crazed” so as to eliminate any confusion with a friendly ax murderer.
Another friend upon arriving commented, “This is a great place to bury a body, huh?” Rather than respond, I let it pass, imagining the real estate listing for such an intended use: Large, private treed lot. Perfect for mafia hit-men, undertaker hobbyists and ironic archaeologists.
But the most common question was, “What do you do up here?”
One of the most repeated quips was, “What? Are you writing the next great American novel?” After the umpteenth time of being asked this I began replying, “Hell no — too ambitious. I’m instead focusing on writing the next great Nicaraguan novel.”
But the most common question was, “What do you do up here?” The polite side of me would respond, “Ski, hike, write, read, chop wood.” But what I really wanted to answer was, “Try to find space for all the animal-themed house-warming gifts.” Move into a cabin and everyone assumes you share the decorating tastes of Cracker Barrel. I had so much kitsch — chainsawed carved bears, moose head fan pulls, slate coasters with elk tracks — my cabin resembled a warehouse for a Smoky Mountain gift shop. This same type of gift giving doesn’t apply to other homes. I would never arrive at a friend’s housewarming party in the city bearing gifts of switch plates adorned with strip mall motifs or slate coasters with the shoe prints of meter maids.
A few hours of sitting on the cabin’s front deck in the pure mountain air would generally alter opinions. Upon leaving, many would ask that I keep them in mind should I need a housesitter. But there were others who said they could never call such an isolated place home. Which is OK. All the more red berries for me to pick.
