FEBRUARY 1, 2023 – This afternoon just before sunset, I arrived at the head of our narrow, twisting drive to the Red Cabin. The last time I’d driven it, I’d summoned insufficient momentum for the sharp incline at the end. The car slid backward down the hill and into a snowbank. What ensued was our “adventure in towing.” (See 1/3/23 post) Today things looked quite different. Recent snowfalls had been cleared, but the drive is so narrow, my car could barely squeeze past the ridges of snow that line both sides. At the cabin end of the skinny passageway is a new mountain range of plowed snow.
As I shoveled a path from car to cabin, I thought of my first winter trip to our old family cabin at the far end of Björnholm (accessed by a different road); Dad and I plus Björn, our collie. What I remember best was Dad’s self-reliance in pursuit of adventure. Despite his suit-and-office job and favorite homebound pastimes—reading, “conducting” a symphony on the “hi-fi,” and building something in his workshop—he possessed an adventurous spirit. That didn’t mean he was a big risk-taker. He planned carefully, and when he faced a challenge, he analyzed it and took a methodical approach to resolution. For him, a perfect adventure would be a trip to the old, secluded cabin—which isn’t winterized—amidst an unusually cold and snowy winter.
He hadn’t arranged for anyone to plow the road (long, narrow, and winding, like ours to the Red Cabin). He figured that with tire chains, he could power through the 18 inches of untouched snow. After our three-hour drive to Hayward, Dad pulled over to install the chains. Bitter cold accompanied nightfall, and Dad struggled to get the job done without freezing his hands. He’d never put chains on before and had bought them only recently in anticipation of our trip. By the time he finished, he had heightened—almost contemptuous—expectations for the chains.
After winding up and down the snow-packed county road several miles, then onto the turnoff—a dirt road plowed by the township, we reached our road—or rather, where we expected it. It was now completely obscured by a three-foot-high snowbank left by the town plow.
There we stopped. Prepared for the situation, Dad pulled a shovel out of the trunk—the last thing to be packed, he’d explained, because it’s the first thing to be used. I gave Björn another break from the car, while Dad took 15 or 20 minutes to clear the snow.
Then the test. He backed the car up for a running start, said “Hang on!” and sent the ’68 Buick hurtling toward our snow-covered road. Having driven the road a thousand times, Dad knew every twist, turn, rise and fall. With hands gripping the wheel, he kept his heavy boot on the gas. We both peered expectantly down the path ablaze from our headlights. I stole a quick sideways glance and saw Dad’s incisors coming down hard over his lower lip—the same thing he did when he was twisting the tight cap off a new jar of herring.
The chains did their job. Two minutes later, we arrived outside the shuttered cabin. Dad gave a “Hooray!” as he often did when conquering a challenge. Now came the easy part—shoveling our way to the back steps, just as I would do more than half a century later at the Red Cabin—followed by the work of unloading the car, turning on the water, and getting a fire going in the big, split-stone fireplace. Within an hour, we’d have the place warmed up to 40 (maxing out the next day at 60). I’ve long forgotten what Dad fixed us for dinner, but I’m sure it was accompanied by . . . a fresh jar of herring.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
