R&R Transfer

218-365-3196

218-235-2701 windows. One winter a pine marten took up residence under the cabin. There were no mice that year. Before the demise of bats, several would swoop out from the dormer roof at dusk on summer evenings. There were far fewer mosquitoes then.

The bird feeders on the deck attract a flock of red pine squirrels and chipmunks along with the year-round resident jays, woodpeckers, chickadees, and nuthatches. Sitting at the table inside, I watch them all as I take my tea in the morning and write in the cabin journal to detail weather, wildlife, and the trivia of day-to-day life that I think I will want to remember but might forget as the years go by. Sometimes a pine marten or fisher will visit to make a snack of the sunflower seeds.

After deer season we put out the remains of butchered rib cages. The birds and mustelids feast on them for months. The ravens won’t come to the deck, though. They are much warier of human detritus than the town ravens that peck apart any garbage bag left unguarded. But they are less cautious with the dogs, sharing bones with the old sled dog but flapping up to the woodshed roof if a person or the big protective dog comes out of the house. When the mice drive us too crazy and we resort to trapping them in the interest of keeping the kitchen counters free of their droppings, we toss their little bodies onto the roof and the ravens find a cheap meal there.

We try to make peace with the squirrels although they chew up the insulation and nest above the ceiling. We have learned it is pointless to remove them since there is an endless population that immediately moves in to replace any we take away in a live trap. As a friend once pointed out, it is morally reprehensible to move into the forest home of animals, entice them with easy food, then kill them for our convenience. Killing for food is different, and it is possible to make a stew with red squirrel meat, but they are so small that cleaning them is arduous and the amount of protein is insignificant. So instead we have grown to appreciate their cuteness and antics as they acrobatically attempt (successfully always) to get the bird seed we try to put out of their reach.

On July 5th, 1999, we returned to the cabin after an overnight in town following the big 4th of July blowdown. We had left to spend the holiday watching the Ely parade, playing at the park, and picnicking with friends. Part way to town we had to pull over because the rain was so heavy we couldn’t see the road. As we sat waiting it out, the wind hit. It didn’t last long, but once we could see again, the view had changed. Trees were jackknifed across the road and leaves and small branches covered the car and the ground. Since people who live here are prepared for such trouble, chainsaws were pulled from trunks and the road was open shortly. The next day, even our backwoods road was cleared for the first few miles.

Coming back to the cabin, wondering what we’d find, we decided to walk after we came to the first tree blocking the road. Overhead an osprey was carrying a large stick to its topsy-turvy nest, making me apprehensive about what damage might have befallen our home. As we turned the corner and could see the opening around the cabin, I noticed it seemed brighter, not as shady. Sure enough, eight large red pines had fallen onto the cabin. Miraculously, the only damage was to the fascia on one side–nothing penetrating the roof, breaking the windows, or weakening the walls.

This past September another storm hit.This one was a highly localized downburst that did more destruction to the forest around the cabin than the 4th of July storm. Neighbors (the closest, six miles away), out on their ATV when the wind started, had to clamber over and crawl under more than 40 trees crossing the road to reach their home, just a mile away. Another had a tree on the back window of his car. But amazingly no other property or person suffered damage.

Our homestead has grown since the 1999 storm, and now we have a sauna/guest cabin, a large yurt, two outhouses, two wood sheds, a solar array, a storage shed, and a small orchard of apple trees. In the recent storm more trees–including two huge white pines and many big spruce, aspen, and red pines–fell close to the buildings, some within an inch. Nothing was damaged. Nothing. A big jack pine had fallen right into the orchard but missed every apple tree. We couldn’t even see through the blowdown into the sauna and yurt area until we spent hours clearing a path. It took a Forest Service crew three days to clear the road.

It is amazing to see how many trees fell and yet how the forest appears intact still. Most of the stately old white pines, including a favorite climbing tree, are still standing. Once the down trees sink into the forest floor, nothing will appear amiss. Openings in the forest canopy will allow light to shine on seedlings; logs will slowly rot, providing homes and food to animal life and fungi; the cabin will keep us cozy and dry for another winter. Unlike the devastation of an intense wildfire or a wind event that flattens every tree, these localized storms–and more moderate fires–keep the forest healthy. But as climate change intensifies, there are no guarantees.

During the Pagami and Greenwood fires, our hand-built, much-loved cabin was in the evacuation zone. Twice we searched through our belongings wondering what were the most valuable items to move out of the fire’s path. Not following the advice of emergency managers, we chose photos over important papers, hand-harvested wild rice over medications. Downwind of the fire just three miles on a day it burned through twelve miles of forest and took other beloved homes, our cabin remained unscorched again.

Threatened by fire, pummeled by fierce winds, invaded by small mammals, the cabin still provides us a cool shady refuge on muggy summer days and a snug fireside den on sub-zero winter nights. We don’t take that for granted. One-day-at-a-time gratitude is part of our life. Our daughter is now the official owner, but really the cabin belongs to the wilderness surrounding it. We can’t know if she will get to enjoy the sheltering logs after future storms and fires, if she’ll bring her own children to the climbing tree she has loved all these years, or whether the squirrels will continue to get easy meals from her birdseed. But we know she grew up loving the wild places, communing with weasels and white pines, learning to enjoy life away from modern conveniences. She named the tree frogs and conversed with mice. As a child she once refused to allow us to clear out a small balsam tree insisting “But she is my best friend!”

Isn’t that what a cabin is for? To shelter us from the hard times in the big world, to give us the chance to be immersed in Nature, to provide the next generation with the certainty that they can thrive in whatever life dishes out. Whether you live fulltime in your cabin, just visit on weekends, or rent one for vacation, may you find what you need there and return to it when life throws you a curve ball. Sit on a stump for an hour, jump into the breath-taking cold lake, curl up next to the fire with a cup of steaming-hot cocoa.

Life is good. Love it!