Last summer I sold my little cabin on the lake.
What a dream it was! A soul searcher’s dream! Here I’d attempt to see how deep the well might reach into the rocky self.
In college I studied philosophy, by the book, but the cabin was a more hands-on experience. I played guitar many nights, writing verses to songs I wouldn’t finish. I hiked here and there. I drew and I dreamt. I fixed and updated much of the inside, bringing a Pinterest board to life. I read Sigurd Olson, and I started taking photos again. All on the edge of the wilderness.
The A-frame is tucked in a bay on the shores of White Iron, nearly whistling distance from the Boundary Waters. It was moved there in the early eighties, shortly after the area was platted and road run through. Later, an addition with a new kitchen, bedroom, and porch was built. The whole thing sits on shallow soil and sheets of rock that the Canadian Shield is known for, surrounded by jack pine and birch. Stars speckled the night sky with such density, it was dizzying. And on rare occasions, the northern lights would steal the show, glimmering above in the most surreal way.
Through the windows of the cabin I saw deer feed in late spring, foxes bounce around the yard, and swans settle in the bay. One day while there in winter, I looked out to see on the frozen lake two wolves chasing down a whitetail. Samona would also get involved in the action. She once chased a fox a mile through the forest, wrestled a raccoon, and survived a scuffle with a black bear. It was her little slice of land too.
During the slow spring thaw, ducks sailed overhead, lower and lower, until the ice retreated from shore. Then a dozen of these new quacking neighbors moved in, abruptly breaking winter’s silence. Beavers, otters, eagles, loons, and turtles were frequent visitors too.
I spent many hours maintaining and updating the place, creating a sanctuary for my thoughts and my things. But it was the easy leisure available right outside I loved most. I’d take my 2001 Sportster out on roads that curled around the shores of the lakes or bobbed over rocky hills. I’d usually end up puttering through town, admiring the canoes strapped to every car and seeing out-of-towners wander about. I made friends with neighbors and other locals, volunteering and staying social in the community. The mining and outfitting industries have bonded the people to the land, and living slow is not only encouraged but necessary.
To live in such solitude, though, you’ve got to flirt with loneliness. After returning from my Camino through Spain, I felt that my retreat to the woods had an expiration. Had I finished every project and realized every dream at the cabin? Not close. But I’d squeezed it like a fruit, getting more out of it than ever expected. Now it was time again to stir my life up - to add some noise, some texture, and some discomfort.
The decision had been made to move on, but the roots I’d wrapped around the place would not follow so easily. I skipped through my twenties with light feet but now at thirty-seven, I felt leaden, my body slow to react to my will. A strong enough wind came, though, and I tumbled over in search of new soil.
I’ve settled now in a new city among friends where I can continue my pursuit of photography and writing. I’m excited to share my next photo project, Seasons Up North - a book to recap my photography during the years at the cabin. It’s a personal collection of the little moments and a reminder of my time there. The book is available for purchase - reach out if you’re interested!
Thank you to those who have followed along, I’ll be here again soon.
ER