SEPTEMBER 7, 2021 – On Labor Day I labored on a cabin project. Just as a president would do before giving the green light to a dicey military operation, I gathered intelligence and assembled a 10-point checklist, the last item being, “Wing it.” But as in evacuation after losing a war, s _ _ _ happens. In my case, it was the Ice Age.
My scale drawings and attention to detail with regard to my tree garden “monument sign” hadn’t accounted for unforgiving stones six inches below grade—left behind by the Wisconsin Lobe of the ice that covered this region 10,000 years ago. My design called for anchor stakes to be pounded two feet into the ground. After a few inches of soft woodland soil, however, I struck the impenetrable legacy of big time “climate change.”
Back to the drawing board.
Before my original plans went awry, I’d packed a boatload of tools—or at least a wheelbarrow load—into . . . a wheelbarrow and pushed same down the woodland trail from the Red Cabin to the construction site. Most of the trail is level and compacted, but nevertheless, the freight in the wheelbarrow clattered noisily.
About halfway into the trip, I heard my name called. Startled by the prospect that a rare visitor would appear in our secluded woods, I set the wheelbarrow down. Again, I heard my name. Through the trees I espied on the shoreline path that parallels the woodland path, our neighbor Bill, from three cabins down. I hadn’t seen him in years. He was with his niece Chelsey, who was equipped with a very serious camera to capture some shots of the eagles that hang out along our shoreline.
Bill and I had lots to catch up on, which we did while I led him and Chelsey on a long hike in the tree garden—up “Hilda’s Meander,” then higher yet on “Ray’s Way” and “Nor-way” before descending back down via “Ragnar’s Way.” Our conversation continued along the trail west to the Red Cabin.
At some point in the conversation, Bill told me about his instance of “s _ _ _ happens.”
“Why don’t you follow us back, and I can show you,” he said. We reversed direction and walked the length of Björnholm, crossed the old “Campbell” property, and climbed the densely wooded slope to Bill’s compound, which includes an old but mint-condition and beautiful cabin with a splendid view of the lake.
According to Bill and his wife, Bronwyn, who came out to greet me, they’d been through a nightmare scenario with their classic cabin. A remodeling job years ago had created the unintended consequence of trapped moisture under the cabin floor. Rot eventually spread to the point where the structural integrity of the splendid cabin was in jeopardy. The choices were to (a) raise the cabin on I-beams and build a full basement (in place of a crawl space); or (b) tear the place down and start from scratch.
If that wasn’t “Afghanistan,” it was close. Ice Age, Schmice Age.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
