Honor — The cabin is not the cottage. They may be similar, but they are not the same. The cottage is for warm weather. The cabin is for cold weather. The cottage is exuberant summer sun. The cabin is unmoving solitude. It’s cozy and close. Secret and small. We don’t do the same things there. We don’t feel the same feelings. The cabin Up North, when the wind starts to blow, is a different place for a different time.
The brisk morning air is like an ice bath for the soul. The glowing pink horizon seeps through barren trees. They are like frail twigs as the autumn rolls on. The cotton-candy color of the lake brightens as our eyes creak open. Hot coffee brings us back to life. Those early moments in the lonely cold are meditative. The stark contrast of hot coffee and chilly air is a metaphor for the cabin.
We are living where the world ends. It’s no longer tourist season. People are gone. It’s like we are trespassing on a forgotten lot, or like we are locked in the department store after all the employees have gone home. The old wooden doors show the years. Time slowly scratches away the polished veneer. The harsh elements take their toll.
At the cottage, there are sailboats and canoes. At the cabin, there are snowshoes and cross country skis. There are different things we do when the weather goes cold. We don’t laugh on the glistening water. We are alone in the deafening silence of freshly fallen snow.
The light is different in the autumn Up North. The sun feels low. The light in the changing trees turns the world sepia. It’s like some sort of dream, and soon we will wake. Those brilliant colors only last so long. The long deep shadows on the forest floor. No cars honking along the road. The warm trees across the water. Red, yellow, orange. They burn bright. Summer at the cottage is special. Autumn at the cabin is divine.
The birds don’t sing like they do in the summer. The volume is turned down. The wind blows and carries the leaves across the path. Crispy, brown, and crackling past the door in the middle of the night. They chase each other in the dark. An old washer and dryer hum in an outbuilding, 20 feet from the back door. The sounds of animals in the woods echo in the quiet night. A deer slowly walking through the trees. Crunch. Crunch.
Swimsuits and towels are tucked away in the bottom drawer of an old dresser. Flannel and canvas barn coats are hanging now. Corduroy-lined collars. Wool scarfs. The scorching sun is welcome. At the cabin, we turn inward, fortifying ourselves against the elements.
We get away so we can get away. But what do we do when we can’t go outside because freezing rain is pelting the door? Or if the snow is falling all weekend? We read. We get away, then we get away again in the pages of a book. On a cold winter’s night, all alone, with nothing else to do. We are always trying to get away.
The attic is a dormitory. Bunks line the walls. Utility lights dangle from the ceiling. We sleep with our heads toward the center of the room so we don’t smack our forehead on an ancient wooden beam in the middle of the night. Skylights let the blue morning light in. In the winter, it’s freezing up here. Blanket after blanket gets piled on.
Drywall is a smooth veneer. The old wooden logs at the cabin tell a different story. They are rough and crude. They are from another era. A rougher era. Standing in the forest, surrounded by logs. Laying in our bed, surrounded by logs. A cabin in the woods.
Small pieces of art hang on the wall. Paintings of nature. Sketches of local scenes. Warm, kind, and simple. The soft light of the dim lamps make life inside golden. The little pieces of art are precious and timeless.
The walls are soaked with the smell of wood smoke. It’s sharp and earthy. It lingers all around but is most potent in the living room. All those years keeping a fire alive in the middle of winter left its mark. At the cottage, the bonfire is on the beach. At the cabin, the fire is in the hearth. The orange embers burning late into the night. Smoldering in the northern dark.
In a dimly lit living room, an old chair sits covered in quilts and pillows. The warm bulbs of the tall lamps shine down over the yellow pages of an old book. An ice cube slowly melts into a drink. The dark wood walls are like a blanket. It all feels warmer here. Late at night, this chair in this cabin feels like a place hidden from the world. Small and secret. Out of time.
Every day closes the same way. No pontoons on the water. No jet-skis screaming on the waves. No lights on across the way. Everyone is gone. The leaves are leaving the trees. They are gathered in little piles along the shore.
We are alone. The world is going to sleep now. The cabin is about reflection. Quiet solitude. Still and almost mournful. Something like a sigh. Life where the world is forgotten. The evening breeze against our faces, as the wind ripples across the water. A few birds battle the wind and fly off across the sky into the sun. The sun sets on the cabin.
O.W. Root is a writer based in Northern Michigan, with a focus on nature, food, style, and culture. Follow him on X @NecktieSalvage.
