The Hollow, as it looks from the dirt road at a point 1.3 miles before reaching camp. Image from the VRML world version of the topographic map. June 2000 Cabin Diary |
 Mailing address: bo@bo-hemian.com |
|
|
|
3 June 2000 -- A good place to have a seat
I have the windows throughout the Cabin open to their fullest on this bright day at the beginning of "meteorological summer". With my eyes largely adjusted to the relatively dark interior of the living room and sleeping area, the scene beyond the screens appears significantly more brilliant than when I am out there. The true heat of July and August is still some time off, so today's temperatures and light breeze make for some of the most comfortable weather of the year.
It is mid-day Saturday, and I have come to that point I always savor in my schedule, the one where all the "necessary" matters are taken care of. Now, according to the plan, I am "free" to do those things I'd always rather be doing when I'm weighted down. Realizing that I might just have a chance at "authentic" leisure today, I rise from the upholstery of the sofa and step outside of the front door. I feel the radiant return of the sun upon my body as I walk out onto the rough gravel of the dooryard. The light is such a stimulus today that it diminishes my usual share of audible sensory input; from the birds and the river behind the back porch.
This season I have been toying with the idea of putting up a real wooden bench, or perhaps a swing, at some distance out from the Cabin building. Walking into the start of the tall grass at the nearest edge of the beaten-down area, I see a promising spot that will at least have shade once the sun has passed the zenith. It is under one of the first of the tall oaks upstream from the compound. This particular tree would appear cut off from the larger numbers of its kind in the distance, were it not for the fill of other, smaller species to its rear--the aspen and the willow, along with the occasional scrub pine or spruce. I stop at this point, checking off on my internal list that I have doused my bare legs with DEET to avoid the ticks that inhabit these parts, and I size up the site.
It is certainly true that I could get one of those kits at the home center on the way out along Route 735, though it would be a heavy load to haul out from the truck and assemble here. For today, the generally flat area under the tree is good enough as is for my usual seating arrangement, which is directly upon the ground. There is enough mossy humus covering the root system to make this comfortably possible. After some additional time picturing the bench with me sitting on it, I decide to make this my place to ponder, out in the open yet with the tree behind me as an underpinning of security.
I remind myself of how the clearing makes these two dozen acres a place of central focus amid the many square miles of more-enclosed forest. It is true that there are other open areas to be seen in the photos I've taken from small chartered aircraft, but none are so close to water and a relatively smooth river-cut for the construction of a road. I have never had many thoughts of blazing new trails and setting up satellite outposts in those other locations, since we're just talking more work. I should at least plot them on the map, though, along with the topography that is already expressed there.
I shift slightly in my "seat" under the oak, with the rough bark finding a new grip on my back. I pull the brim of my boonie hat forward, since the sun is still capable of entering the upper periphery of my vision. I am somewhat concerned when I have so many days like this where I don't want to put out extra effort, yet work defines life only to the extent that it is truly called for. Up here in this hollow, I sense that I might actually be approaching one of those infrequent moments of contentedness as I lean back against this tree. I suppose a true bench would be easier on my body, but who knows where I might be in terms of sentiment by the time I could get it set up? This day is something to appreciate on its own unique, bench-less merits. It is hard to plan times like these--they just happen spontaneously, and when they will.
"Bo"
7 June 2000 -- The sun has returned
It is another of those mornings when the raw intensity of the near-solstice sun is enough to make up for the chill of the night just passed, whose legacy remains in the form of an ample supply of dew. The windows remain closed against this chill, which is enough to notice even under my down covers as I sleep. It will most likely be July before I can leave them open all night, to hear the sounds of the crickets and the river as I drift off. Months like that are when the experience at this "camp" really begins to resemble camping. Since it's still getting down to near 40 degrees F at night, however, I continue to prefer the alternate advantages of shelter.
I am not in any particular hurry to get going this morning, as I step onto the sanded-smooth wood plank floorboards and head to the kitchen to get the coffee started. This is a sentiment I recognize as valuable in a life where I usually wonder "what's next?" and remain unsatisfied until I have an answer or have created one. I build the minimum amount of fire in the cast iron stove, to reheat what is left in the percolator from yesterday afternoon. I can live without a daily fix of latte or cappuccino from the corner Starbuck's--coffee is pretty much coffee. I watch the pot to make sure it doesn't boil, then pour a generous serving into my earthenware mug, which I carry to its common resting place on the scarred wood of the coffee table.
There is every chance for a truly warm day today, from the looks of that sun. The radiant heat is certainly there; it is now time for the outdoor ambient temperature to catch up. I look to the high top of the ridge, shielding my eyes from the sun immediately above. I remember some of the times I've gone there in search of the continuous winds that make even the hottest August day livable. I don't think I'd like being up there just now, since the experience would be wind chill, and not a cooling breeze. Cracking one of the living room windows to sample the air, I note the stillness down here in the hollow. The impression of cold that I feel out there, even with the sunlight on the screen, is enough to reinforce my desire to stay inside.
I turn from the window and sink myself into the upholstery of the sofa, resting my eyes upon the sunlit opposite side of the room. It feels a bit strange to have even this basic amount of developed housing in woods so remote and wild as these. I look at the foliage at the top of the ravine out back and note its insular density, though the tops of trees are only a short distance away along that line of sight. It is as if I were travelling in some sort of "capsule" up here, through a foreboding realm of cold, rough terrain, insects, and plant allergens. This is indeed remote--I remember now what it was like to gaze off into the undeveloped country the last time I stopped along the state highway near one of the farms outside the village.
The feeling that I like to cultivate during these visits is one in which real life matters are not so ready to snatch me up like the monster in a low-budget horror movie. By dwelling on this thought, however, I realize that I'm beginning to let those "monstrous" powers follow along, up the tenuous trail I thought I had covered up when I arrived yesterday afternoon. Feeling the need for a change of scene, I finally decide to get up and take my now-cooled cup of coffee outside on the porch. I sit myself down next to the steps with my field jacket draped around my shoulders, letting my bare feet come to rest upon the warming earth of the dooryard. While I cannot always prevent my "problems" from accompanying me to this enclave, I also do not completely lose sight of this wonderful sun. Yes, I remind myself, there is every chance for a warm day today.
"Bo"
11 June 2000 -- The ideal of imperfection
The windows of the Cabin are open and a warm, gentle breeze is making its way through the living room and sleeping space. It is somewhere past local noon, though I make it a point to remove my watch when I arrive up here. I am tempted to stay for some time as I am now, stretched out on top of my bunk, since I have so little to feel guilty about not doing. The river flows on behind the rear window, left to right as always, and the continuity of its slightly-distant muffled roar adds to the sense that little really needs to change. This is how it was in the dream, where life seemed to have slowed down to something resembling the exquisite form and duration of a childhood summer vacation.
I frequently find myself wanting to drop into a carefree oblivion such as I know today, with the only human presence to accommodate being myself. I know that it is unrealistic to hope for more than these isolated parcels of isolation, since there are so many long-established connections that integrate me into the overall social fabric of city living. There are times I wonder how I ever let it get this way, as if it were a bad habit. I find myself in various contexts that suddenly look like they shouldn't include me, since my status as a dissident is a notorious one. I tell myself that I should be ratcheting down my level of commitment, in a gradual pattern so as to prevent injury to others.
It would be comforting to imagine that others are as inward looking as I am, so that I am not really missed when I make my abrupt exits. Though it might be valuable to know that they do not hold me in the disregard I might deserve, I really don't want to run the risk of seeing what they do think of me, on those occasions when my presence forces them to form an opinion. Because of the imperfections and lack of clarity in any interpersonal exchange, I do not trust what I hear others say as much as I trust what I hear inside my own head. Society only seems possible through the exercise of tactful dishonesty and the manipulation of true feelings when dealing with others having the same predicament of time and place.
As I let myself sink into the soft covers of my rough-hewn bed, I remind myself that my own internal positions regarding myself are perhaps the least reliable ones I have. Force of habit has made this my chosen path, the one of self-doubt. I know that I should be tempering this scathing self-evaluation with the less-impassioned evidence of external testimony, but that means coming face to face with the definitive uncertainty of what could suddenly spring upon me when I'm in close enough range to hear them. Since I am far from a perfect being, I know I should take what I have coming. I've told myself on frequent occasion that they don't want me to perform in heroic style. According to this model, the shortcomings in every person should really be viewed as strengths, because they put all people in the same group, with differences only in character and degree. By bringing weakness to a relationship, I also bring commonality, and this should play a role alongside whatever else I can bring for strength.
Still, I am not persuaded often to join in, since I see little point to putting on a less-than-ideal performance. This is an insidious sabotage, of course, because the "ideal" is by definition impossible. While I have heard the American system of socialization criticized because it creates legions of people who take pride in their mediocrity, I know they are justified in not wanting to turn out as I have. In a textbook stance of false pride, I would brazenly endeavor to act without error, in a world that thrives instead by each person tendering his faults like a handshake, as though symbolic weapons have temporarily been put aside. That might be what I fear most from the others: hearing the truth of how ridiculous I look in my quest for what I cannot have.
On this day at the threshold of "real" summer, I now know why I can idealize being a kid--I was chock full of imperfection and at everyone's mercy. It is not hard to strive for such an ideal, when it is defined by an acceptance of not being ideal.
"Bo"
15 June 2000 -- Enjoying a moment's rest
I have just finished with another meal at my table for one, seated within earshot of the open screen door to the back porch and the river-cut ravine. It is the first real food I've had since I got up this morning--when I do not have urban irritations, I seem to need less to settle my system. Leaving the dishes until later in the day, I get up from the bench and walk to the door, to get a better look outside. It is at this point that the earthen aroma of the forest begins to replace the more neutral smell of the wooden interior of the Cabin. It is noticeably warmer today than it has been in recent times, and the air has a heavy, damp feeling from yesterday's rainfall.
Wishing no more than to sit for awhile in my fully-fed state, I step out into the partial shade behind the porch and onto the rough stone, gravel and brush surface at the woods' edge. I watch my step as I turn the far corner of the building and enter the clearing, whose haze is sufficient to have a luminance all its own from the high sun. I am wishing again that I had put up a bench at the sitting place I've favored lately. Maybe what I really want is a chaise lounge, so as to import some of the comfort of the sofa into this open air. Realizing I have few places I'd care to drop my tired body right now on the predominantly hard rocks and tree trunks, I return to the front porch, which is now in full shade. I step inside to get my seating pad and settle in to the creaking metal chair.
I gaze outward through slightly-squinted eyes at the gentle rise of the clearing and the steeper slope of the hillside beyond, where the "unimproved" rocks and brush have little to make me want to leave my seat. These moments when I'm able to sit are filled with considerable sentiment, even if I risk falling behind on my other inevitable obligations by doing so. It would seem that I should be doing in the present what will look like a job well done in the future, for time only progresses in that one direction. Of course, I could be going about this all wrong; perhaps there is no conscious "plan" that will "work" all of the time. This is not a good thought to hold long, for it leads to cynicism and despair. I decide instead to take the woods at face value, now that I'm here, and get in my measured increment of leisure.
The air is indeed heavy today, and it has something of a tactile presence beyond its simple warmth. The scene at the edge of the clearing, unremarkable though it may be, is also supportive in its unassuming constancy. The hollow has beauty in its endless repetition of tree and boulder precisely because it makes no explicit demands yet is seen, heard, smelled and felt as it modestly expresses its innate vitality. This could be an answer to my question of "what to do"--if I keep alive a set of core principles, the ones having time-tested value, then I can run about on any number of diversions and still have something to look back on with approval at a later time.
Since it feels so good to be in this place right now, I must conclude that a certain amount is already going as it should in my life. I shouldn't talk in such somber terms about my city dealings and how they'll be my undoing. I am working at the next step: learning to appreciate in the present the underlying structure of growth that has kept me moving along for so many seemingly-difficult years. I am tired of exertion that only looks good in retrospect; there is no such thing as conditional virtue. What is good is good, and at all times. While my dismissal of current effort as worthless just because it doesn't "feel" good is shortsighted, I doubt I can do much about it at any one time. I have a start, however, in being able to know that good is happening in my life. A record of such accomplishment is the kind of possession that will endure for future times of encouragement. This knowledge will have to do until the feeling finally arrives.
"Bo"
19 June 2000 -- In need of someplace to go
The full heat of summer has yet to come, meaning I've likely got a few days here that are ideal for outdoor activity. I feel a sense of duty sometimes to be out there when I can, as if that were my "occupation" during the times I get away to these woods. I wonder to myself if I should really be pushing myself into hiking, when my city life is so full of compulsory activity as it is. I am all too familiar with that burning sense of emergency, leading from one do-or-die situation to the next. I am driven to avoid the sinking feeling of a descent into failure, something I might not be able to stop once it is given a chance to start.
I try to remind myself that the normal demands of human participation cannot reach me out here; that I can turn around and go back any time I want. Still, I know that I feel accomplishment when I return from one of those journeys, ready to use the gravity-fed shower next to the back porch. Because I am the same person in real life that I am in this wilderness, I cannot easily discard my values and my methods of motivation. I think to what it will be like if I cover a sizable distance, reaching points on the hillside that I can plot in my field of view when I'm relaxing again on the sofa or front porch. Well, that settles it, I'm going to go for a walk. I find my leather boots and daypack and step out into the mild calm of the hollow.
Since I have all day to live out this hiking daydream, I remind myself that I do not need to exert myself at any given pace that is beyond my tolerance for comfort. I start out at a slow, ambling stroll, noticing how large the clearing feels when I'm actually in the middle of it. Ahead I see the approaching tree perimeter, and I can pick out the prominent rock-cairn that I have placed at what I thought was the proper starting point for a trail in 1997. As I enter the woods, still at a reduced walking speed, I do what I can to immerse myself in the unique-yet-familiar wonder of each small turn of the path. This is not a "constructed" trail, so the course I follow is really nothing more than a best compromise between the dense thicket of the undergrowth and the determination of a human to pass through it.
Rising along the jumble of switchbacks and sections of granite boulder "pavement", I think to the analogous experience of walking the smooth concrete of city streets, dodging people instead of rocks and crossing streets instead of climbing over fallen tree trunks. No one ever made it his business to design either of these as an obstacle course, but that is how they can feel. Since I have started seeing the woods as an unwelcome burden, I realize the need to slow down. When I do this, I become aware of the sweat that I have developed. I have probably climbed 500 vertical feet by now, and I decide to level off when I finally reach the turnoff towards the south at 4300 feet elevation.
I find gratification in even being able to say that I made it to this noteworthy point. Because of my relaxed schedule, I take a long drink from my canteen and stretch my legs as I sit on a large granite boulder nearby. I finally decide on an "objective" for this trip, once I've resumed my thoughtful pace along the trail, with less effort now that I do not need to climb as sharply as before. I am going to visit the spring at the top of the south fork of the upper river. I reach that stream as I predicted I would, then bushwhack my way through the less hospitable terrain of its bank. I doubt I would think to do this if I hadn't been up here before in more energetic times. After many carefully-placed steps and the dodging of a large number of brier vines and thorn bushes, I arrive at the source.
I decide to splash some of the spring water over my shirt and face and spend some time up here. I look back down the slight gully of the newly-started river and see an area that might just be flat and open enough to host a tent site. With my own permanent camp not far away, I find a way down to this opening and let myself dry on a rock in the near-solstice sun of mid-day before returning from my day hike. I finally "got something done" for today's visit; the rest is all downhill.
"Bo"
23 June 2000 -- Settling for the predictable
It is a good bit warmer today than it had been, so my choice of activity for this visit is just to hang around inside, with the windows open. The muggy feeling of summer is starting in earnest, as are the insect sounds of the grassy clearing. Soon the night will be as it is in those old movies set in the South, with the crickets and all as a backdrop against the unfolding of one nefarious misdeed or another. I have never been much of a person of the night, so I suppose I'll miss out on most of that particular ambience. My life is a far more benign enterprise of various attempts at successful living that typically happen during normal business hours.
I take a seat on the sofa and prop up my bare feet in their usual resting place on the coffee table. I lean my head back and do what I can to let myself become settled. I am a person who does not have the easiest time feeling justified while trying to relax; I am often faced with the paradox of restful absorption during engrossing occupation. I suspect I'm being guided along by factors of neurochemistry that I should not lightly dismiss, on account of a demonstrated long-term stability in working my hours and keeping at the essential chores. I don't suppose many people ever like being tied to such predictability in life, so I don't differ much from them in that regard. I just get annoyed that the struggle doesn't necessarily end when the work day is through. I do not define "leisure" in quite the same way.
Well, I'm going to take my best shot at reaching that wonderful and all-too-rare state of spontaneous contentment while I'm here. I open my eyes again and note how everything is staying in place, except for the slight motion of the trees out back in the breeze. There is plenty of substance in these simple surroundings, though it is not as explicit as the feed from those high-bandwidth information outlets in my real life. Perceiving the cause for satisfaction in an unchanging scene is difficult, true, but once I've locked on, then the single basis for such appreciation does not suddenly end in the fashion of a television program.
I am holding this setting inside the Cabin in front of my mind's eye, looking for what I have not yet seen today. The basis for joy is fully present within this domain; I can infer as much from the times I have been successful. As time passes and I keep clawing at apparently-thin air, I begin to see the signs that I should give up for now. The beauty of a life on many terrains is that I am not tied to any one condition--something better is predictably in the future. Maybe my problem is related to this intense introspection and second-guessing of my own thoughts, which will right themselves naturally when given a chance. I have successfully resisted the temptation to write another person or persons into the world of this hollow, but there are times I wonder about that. I know myself far too well.
The idea of needing to accommodate the unknown meanderings of others instead of dealing with the more predictable meanderings of myself, however, is not something that holds much promise at this point. When I'm washed up, that's just the way it's going to be. There is little point to letting myself be thrashed about on a program that has no certainty of success but every possibility of heartache and public humiliation. In my picture of such a scenario, I am left with the compounded chaos of my own erratic sentiment needing to conform to a similar signal playing within another. The others have likely concluded by now that being alone will eventually drive them over the edge, so they have nothing to lose in playing that game. "It isn't that bad with me," I hasten to remind myself. I finally feel the onset of an ability to relax, and I willingly turn over the controls to my inner navigation system as I stretch out on the sofa. I'm still trying to figure out what just happened there, though I know this to be dangerous folly. This outcome was in the works all the time; I had only to wait.
"Bo"
27 June 2000 -- An effort to find relief
On this early afternoon when no one could argue that it's not summer, I take a long drink from my 2-quart canteen, emptying its contents in an attempt to keep up with my perspiration. In the process of getting a refill from the 55-gallon cistern in the kitchen, I note that the rate of flow from the brass spigot is reduced. This is a sign that I should go out back to the bottom of the ravine and fetch a few buckets of river water to pour through the filtration system. Knowing that I have heavy lifting to do on a day of hazy sun and stifling humidity, I take another long swig and hang the canteen by its strap from the back door handle before I start.
I tell myself that I should go slowly at it today, since this weather is nothing to fool around with. At least I'm under the shade of the trees that fill the ravine as I begin down the series of stones that happen to form a "stairway" to the riverbed. It's even uncomfortably warm at the point beside rushing current where I crouch to dip in the 5-gallon plastic bucket. From long practice, I've learned just how much water I can carry up that trail without sloshing or the onset of critical fatigue. Satisfied that I have scooped a bucketful without scooping too much sediment, I begin the first of several patient ascents. The Cabin looks awfully high on the hillside when I have nearly 30 pounds of dead weight in tow.
I pay careful attention to my foot placements on the rocks as I make my way to the back door, leaning to one side to offset the mass of untreated water that is destined for the filter. By the time I have brought up 25 gallons, I decide to call it "good", since I have become drenched with sweat and my knees are feeling ready to buckle. I remove my shirt and shoes and go for the canteen, which now fills readily when I top it off. I take a long-yet-optimal sip, then step back outside in my nylon shorts to get a good soaking from the gravity-fed shower. As the water runs delightfully over my head, I note that I'll soon need to climb up on the ladder from the shed and pour another bucket or two into its reservoir as well.
I walk on the sharp, hot gravel surface of the dooryard, then along one of the easier pathways from the back porch to the "front yard". I note that a certain breeze has emerged, the ideal complement to being soaked down on a day like today. This is about the closest approach I'll get up here to a day at the beach. After I've taken enough evaporative cooling in the open, I return to the shade of the front porch, where my feet are still wet enough to make damp impressions on the weathered planks. My towel is still draped over the old metal chair, from the last installment in this procedure, so all is ready for having a seat.
It occurs to me that I find frequent pleasure in just sitting like this, especially after some quantity of exertion like towing water or fighting city traffic. It is as if everything has been drained from me, and I always wonder how I kept on the way I did. Though I tried my best this afternoon to take it easy coming up with that bucket, there was no avoiding this subsequent collapse. Well, if I have to crash, it is better to crash with accomplishment under my belt. Otherwise, I'd just be called "lazy". It is good to have ample supplies of water up here in the summer, since that is one of the few remedies I have against the heat. I am also glad for an isolated and insulated setting, where walking around in one's bathing trunks outside does not bring the stares it would on my real life city street.
It finally occurs to me that the matter of today's isolation is not causing the agony of self-deliberation it usually does after I've been here awhile. I am able to live with it, and without forcing the conclusion that I must be going back. Strangely absent is the standard guilt associated with the simple pleasure of being left to myself. Maybe the heat has suppressed some of those reactions for now, ones that would return with the restoration of A/C. I don't know--I better enjoy this while it lasts.
"Bo"